


The Hogwarts Reunion Is When Everything Changes (And Torchwood Is Ready)

by lilithilien



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Torchwood
Genre: Blanket Permission, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-28
Updated: 2008-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithilien/pseuds/lilithilien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say you can't go home again. But what happens when you try?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hogwarts Reunion Is When Everything Changes (And Torchwood Is Ready)

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as an exercise in writing smut, but turned into something a little more. Call it plot-heavy PWP. ;) I know that class reunions aren't done in the U.K, but please suspend your disbelief—this is a story of wizards and alien-hunters, after all. As for the timeline, ten years after Hogwarts sets the _HP_ side of the story in 2008, while the _TW_ side comes in the first series (after "Countrycide" but before Jack and Ianto's second series' relationship). Finally, many thanks to Dysonrules, whose [TW/HP crossover](http://twasadark.googlepages.com/bridgingtherift) put this idea in my head, and to Sarcastic Jo, my beloved beta and Jack-picker, who wouldn't let it leave until I wrote it down. _Runner-up, Best Crossover,[Doctor Who/Torchwood Slash Awards 2008](http://community.livejournal.com/dwtwslashawards/3213.html)!_

The envelope waited for him at the Information Centre. Tucked between glossy brochures for Llangollen Canal boat tours and a stack of National Express day return tickets it sat, creamy parchment adorned with old-fashioned calligraphy:

  
_Mr Ianto Jones, Tourist Information Centre, Cardiff_   


The pads of his fingers tingled before he even touched it, whorls craving that hint of residual magic that hummed between the fibres. His thumb, slipping under the cut to crack the seal, released just the faintest whiff of wax. If scents could be portkeys he'd have sworn this was one, transporting him back to chilly mornings in the Great Hall, to half-awake eyes after too-late study sessions, to hands raised towards airborne talons laden with mail. Missives from home, those cherished moments simultaneously magnified and soothed his homesickness, bringing a momentary hush to the Ravenclaw table.

He shook his head to empty it. Sense memories were powerful things even without magic, and he couldn't afford to get lost in them. Instead he focused on the words before him:

  
_HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

 _You are hereby invited  
To spend the weekend of 20th June  
With your friends, classmates, and professors  
For a celebration of ten years of peace and prosperity._

 _Spouses and family are most welcome._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall  
Headmistress_

Ianto nudged a knuckle into a stinging eye, stunned by a profound sense of approbation. In these words was confirmed his survival, his own and his classmates. Indeed, they spoke to the constancy of a life that he might have forsworn but that would continue on, long after he and everyone he ever knew was dead.

Everyone but Jack, who of course chose that very moment to come blustering through the door like a storm off Cardiff Bay.

"Ianto Jones, you are truly a sight for sore eyes. I've been staring at Tosh's rift schematics since dawn and I'm about to go blind. And not in the enjoyable way, either. I thought maybe you could whip up some of your coffee magic and join me in my office ... and what is that you're hiding behind your back?"

His words startled Ianto, who wasn't even aware that he'd shifted the invitation out of view. It was simply an unconscious reflex born from years of avoiding scrutiny at Pistyll Rhaeadr. His home behind the waterfall was charmed against Muggle eyes, but still his family had always been on guard.

A silent banishing spell did away with the evidence now, and he raised empty hands to Jack's inquisitive gaze. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, sir."

Jack stared, blinked, and then shook his head. "I really must be going blind." Ianto's face remained impassive, despite noticing how sexy his boss looked with his eyes sparkling in confusion. "So how about that coffee magic?"

"Coming right up."

A few minutes later, while tamping down the grounds, Ianto remembered Jack's choice of words. _Coffee magic._ If Jack only knew.

*****

The envelope arrived with his weekly trans-Atlantic owl. Tucked between Mother's letter fragrant with lilac perfume and the Sunday edition of the _Daily Prophet_ it sat, creamy parchment adorned with old-fashioned calligraphy:

  
_Mr Draco Malfoy, Westmount Square, Mount Royal, Québec_   


Another request for donations, no doubt. That old castle was a money pit, so full of draughts and crumbling foundations that it really should be razed, rebuilt with modern conveniences like double-glazed windows. Draco wasn't bothered if they were a Muggle invention. If they could keep out the fierce winds that blew in off the St. Lawrence, they could do wonders for those frigid classrooms.

Draco slipped the blade of his dragonbone letter opener under the cut, cracking the seal without ceremony and reading the words contained within:

  
_HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

 _You are hereby invited  
To spend the weekend of 20th June  
With your friends, classmates, and professors  
For a celebration of ten years of peace and prosperity._

 _Spouses and family are most welcome._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall  
Headmistress_

Draco's first instinct was to set the invitation aflame. Since his self-imposed exile from Britain he'd kept in touch with everyone he cared to. He played host to Pansy's seasonal shopping frenzies, often with Millicent in tow. Greg stopped by nearly as often as his parents. He'd even escorted Blaise to Lake Louise when his old friend insisted on the full wilderness experience (300 thread-count sheets were as close to wilderness as Draco was willing to go, thank you very much). No, there really was nobody else that he cared to see.

The rustle of sheets drew his attention back his bed, and to the man stirring there. Jules? Julien? Something like that, Draco couldn't be bothered to remember. In any case, he was now waking up enough to stretch sculpted arms, showing off the dark curls that fell over his shoulders. "Bonjour, sexy," he drawled sleepily. "Ça va?"

"Pas mal." Draco debated returning to bed. He should stop in to the office at some point; his partnership in the investment firm would be finalised tomorrow and there were several figures he should double-check. But that wouldn't take the whole day, and his mind would be sharper if he wasn't stressed. A tumble with a doe-eyed Frenchman, all lean chest and wiry arms and perfectly globed bottom, might be just the thing.

But as he tossed the mail to his writing table, the newspaper fell open. _Vanquished Voldemort But Luckless in Love_ the headline read, and that alone would have caught his eye; the Dark Lord's name still made his flesh crawl. But more arresting were the two pictures underneath. Potter and Finch-fucking-Fletchley, placed side by side just like the _Prophet_ had caught them for months. Draco had cringed every time he'd seen their images before, but now Finch-Fletchley was draped over Marietta Edgecombe. Apparently they'd been carrying on an illicit affair right under the Chosen One's nose. Potter looked absolutely wrecked. As well he should. Dumped by a Hufflepuff!

Suddenly this reunion looked much more attractive.

Draco picked up his guest's clothes and tossed them onto the sheets. "You," he said, not even attempting to remember the name, "shove off. I've things to do." _Transferring the Richard files to Maurice, Butchart to Jennie, René could take the Leveque case until he got back..._ The entire list congealed in his head before he noticed that Jules/Julien hadn't moved from the bed. Draco pointed his wand threateningly. "Did you not hear me? _Vite, vite_!"

He had much to do before returning to Hogwarts.

*****

The envelope waited, unopened, on the coffee table. Tucked under an empty pizza box on the coffee table it sat, clouded coffee rings seeping into the creamy parchment and blurring the old-fashioned calligraphy:

  
_Mr Harry Potter, No. 12, Grimmauld Place, London_   


"Aren't you going to open it?" Hermione asked, flicking her wand to dispose of the mess.

Harry started to tell her that Kreacher could take care of it, but saved himself from the lecture an instant before the words came out. He shrugged instead. "Don't really need to, do I? It'll be the same as what you and Ron got."

She sighed. "You're not still upset about the _Prophet_ , are you?"

"They're just so wrong! Justin and I broke up two months ago!"

"It's only gossip, Harry. You know that."

"I know, but I'm sick of it. They never quit."

"And they never will. That doesn't mean you have to pay them any attention." Hermione held out the envelope, and after a second he took it. It felt heavy in his hand, just like that first letter from Hogwarts nearly twenty years before. "Come to the reunion, Harry," Hermione said, which was fine until she added, "Show them you don't care who Justin's seeing."

"I _don't_ care!" He frowned at her raised eyebrow, knowing she didn't believe him. "I don't! You know Justin and I had almost nothing in common." Pretty amazing sex, admittedly, but at twenty-eight he'd finally discovered that wasn't enough. He may have given up his dream of a nuclear family when he came out of the broom closet, but he hadn't given up hoping he'd find someone to share his life.

"Then you need to go to the reunion and dance your heart out. You haven't been out dancing in weeks, have you?"

Harry smiled wryly. "A Hogwarts ball is a bit different than a gay club, you know."

"I know, but it'll still be fun, won't it? Dance with everybody under the sun. Dance with Malfoy, if he's there!"

Harry's breath caught. "You don't think Malfoy will show, do you?"

"He could do," said Hermione, her mouth quirked as if she was stifling a smile. "He's donated a lot of money to Hogwarts over the years. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he wanted to see it's been spent well."

Harry could see him already. His old rival would descend on Hogwarts with the same haughtiness he'd always had, his imperious glare daring anyone to mention his family's part in the war. As if throwing money at the building could make up for all the damage. Harry wondered if his insults had gotten any better. He would probably trot out that tired old repertoire, about Harry's family, his hair, his clothes…

"You know, maybe you're right. I'll go to the reunion. Maybe I should get some new robes though..."

Hermione's curious smile spread even as she shook her head. "All the fashionable wizards wear suits these days. When you spend enough, seems the magic-Muggle distinction disappears." She held out her arm. "C'mon, I'll take you to Udeshi and then you can buy me lunch."

*****

Jack hated secrets. Part of that was because of the distrust they implied, _especially_ when they involved members of his team. Still, he could forgive. He had secrets of his own (that whole immortality thing was just the tip of the iceberg) and keeping them didn't mean he didn't trust the people around him. Not necessarily.

No, right now he hated this particular secret because it was one more thing he didn't know about Ianto Jones. A simple enough man, he'd assumed when he hired him. Persistent for sure, good in a crisis, looked damn good in a suit. It was only later that he'd discovered the enigma behind that polished façade, one who had the nerve (and the brains, Jack had to give him that) to smuggle his cyber-girlfriend into the Hub. After that, realising how little he really knew, Jack had made a concerted effort to uncover the office teaboy's secrets. He'd thought it was working; Ianto was certainly opening up to the team and even responding to his flirtatious advances (and Jack was _very_ eager to see where those went). But then, he had unexpectedly requested time off (Ianto _never_ took time off) and sidestepped every question about his plans.

Which is why Jack found himself in the Scottish highlands, in a sleepy little burg that didn't even warrant a speck on the map. "Hogsmeade," the sign said—not even a "welcome to," just the simple declaration of its existence. As short and to the point as the layout of the town, with its basic grocery-cum-post office and dingy pub (every town's got one, Jack thought). In the centre were the derelict remains of a train station that suggested Hogsmeade might once have been more. It sure wasn't now. If the tracker he'd hidden in Ianto's car hadn't led him here, Jack would have driven straight through.

The tracker must have been on the fritz, though, because it kept insisting that Ianto's blue Opal should be right _here_ , right on this desolate road beside these dilapidated train tracks, right in the shadow of this craggy mountain where no one in their right mind would choose to live.

But Jack had come this far and he'd be crazy not to check it out. He locked the Range Rover (probably an unnecessary precaution in this one-horse town, but the memory of Brecon Beacons was still fresh) and headed to the pub. It turned out to be nothing special, just a small bar, a few chipboard tables, a dartboard dangerously close to the door. Not that there was any danger at the moment. The pub's only patron was leaving as Jack entered. The old fellow didn't reply to Jack's greeting; with his requisite tweed cap tugged low over his eyes, even his suspicious glance was economical. Jack let him pass, then made his way to one of the barstools, hoping for more luck with liquor-loosened tongues.

"Sure gets thirsty on the road. Any chance of a lager?"

The bartender, seemingly disgruntled about the chore of pulling a pint, handed it over wordlessly. No mention of the American accent, which almost inspired Jack to lay it on thick with talk of Brigadoon, but he knew better than to annoy the only bartender in town. He asked a few questions until he was certain he'd get no answer, then sipped his beer and waited for a friendlier face to cross the threshold.

After fifteen minutes Jack would have been eager to talk to anyone, friendly or not, but he thanked his lucky stars when the door swung wide and an unbelievably attractive man entered. Already tall and lean, he wore an expensive charcoal suit, tailored to accentuate a perfectly tapered frame. The dark colour of the cloth made his hair and skin look impossibly fair, Jack thought admiringly. He flashed his most charming grin.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

With eyes unnaturally light the man looked every bit as forbidding as Hogmeade's other inhabitants, but he seemed to relax at Jack's smile. "Thank you." He turned to the barkeep. "Whisky, straight."

Jack must have missed something, because suddenly the bartender's displeasure shifted into outright animosity. Instead of shrinking back, however, the man stood straighter. Jack was impressed and offered his hand.

"Jack Harkness, at your service."

"Draco Malfoy. You're American, I presume?" His accent was posh, the vowels lazy and slow to leave his titled tongue, but Jack also recognised the slight nasal crush of his supposed homeland.

"Good ear, but I'm in Cardiff now. And is that a hint of an American accent I hear from you?"

"Canadian. I've been in Montréal for ten years."

He drank his single malt like it was worth coming back for, leaving Jack to admire the skip in his Adam's apple when he swallowed. "Never tastes as good as it does up here, does it?"

The whisky glistened on lips curling gradually into a smile. "It really doesn't. I always forget that." He set his glass down precisely, right in the juncture of the imitation wood grain, and studied Jack with those unearthly eyes. "You're a long way from home, Jack. Out sightseeing?"

"Not exactly. Although if I was, I'd have to say the sights improved as soon as you walked in." A disgustingly cheesy line, Ianto's eyes would be rolling right out of his head, but Jack wasn't above crude flirtation if it lowered someone's guard. The sight of flushed pink skin rising above a jade Hermès tie was an added bonus. "No, I'm actually looking for someone. He's supposed to be here, but he … well, it's like he's disappeared."

Jack expected a sympathetic frown or even a look of curiosity. Draco's amused expression surprised him. "And who is this you're looking for?"

"A co-worker from Cardiff. Name's Ianto Jones."

Draco nodded, but there was a smugness in his smile that told Jack he knew more. And that he wouldn't volunteer the information. Jack cleared his throat. "So what about you? Can't imagine you'd lack for travelling companions."

"My friends will arrive later. In the meantime I'm … slumming." His gaze darted to the bartender, his furtive glance somehow managing to condescend.

"Well that's fortunate." Slowly Jack licked his bottom lip, waiting until Draco's eye was fixed on it. "I've always been an expert slummer. Maybe we should swap techniques."

With a not-so-subtle wink, Jack slid from the barstool and sauntered to the men's room. He hung his long coat and took the opportunity to piss while he waited, certain that he had a few moments before Draco bit. _"Not 'til I bite first,"_ Jack chuckled to himself, and Ianto would have groaned at that one, too. Where was he, anyway? Draco knew something, of that he was sure. Jack would loosen him up and then find out what he was hiding.

Draco arrived a moment later, after Jack had ensconced himself in one of the stalls, small but serviceable, and was already leering at the thought of blue-blooded lips stretched around his dick. Draco moved towards Jack so gracefully it seemed his feet didn't touch the dingy tile floor. As soon as he was within reach Jack pulled him forward. With a few stone on the slim man, Jack pressed him against the flimsy wall divider.

What happened next he couldn't quite explain.

Draco muttered something indecipherable and suddenly Jack felt helium-balloon light. The other man levered his lean frame and in an instant their places were reversed. Hands were loosening Jack's belt, unzipping his fly, sliding down his trousers … but they were on his shoulders too, holding him in place. Jack knew that couldn't be, and somewhere there was a fleeting thought that he should question it, but his brain was fuzzy. He couldn't focus on nothing apart from his erection squeezed by slick digits, from the perfect friction and the … _god_ how could it feel like _suction_ from just a hand? Jack pried a reluctant eye open to stare down, and yes, it was truly Draco's hand, those long Patrician fingers looking far too cultured to be wrapped around Jack's crude width. The thought excited him; blood rushed to his cock, swelling it even more.

"That's right," Draco murmured, and Jack could only moan his agreement. This _did_ feel right, even when Draco spun him around like a rag doll. One hand still stroked him, the other slipped between his sweaty cheeks, exploring along his crease to the bull's-eye. Slick fingers popped inside his tight ring, opening Jack with a burning that made him press back to draw Draco deeper. More fingers stretched him wider, his resistance shredding with blinding flares of pleasure. He couldn't remember when last he'd felt such an overwhelming rush of sexual energy, when his knees had quivered so and he'd relied on the body joined with his to keep him from falling. One thing he knew was that it had never happened in a bathroom stall with his face pressed against a cinderblock wall and trousers hobbling his ankles.

Somewhere between a plea and a demand he whispered "more" and then as an afterthought, remembering where he was, "condom?"

"Something better. You're safe," promised Draco, giving Jack's cock one last reassuring squeeze. And as he said the words, Jack was sure he would be. He inched his legs wider, arching his back and displaying his bottom, peacock proud, but even as the blunt head of Draco's cock slid along the crack still the man asked. "Is this what you want?"

A ridiculous question. Couldn't he tell that Jack's every nerve was primed for entry? "Yeah, god, yes, just do it." The next thing that left his lips was a long hiss. It'd been ages since Jack had been in this position, time enough to forget that it always hurt, this reshaping of his body to accommodate another's. But Draco was infinitely patient. His elegant fingers rubbed soothing circles around Jack's nipple, slowly pebbling it to hardness, giving it a firm tweak when he slid that final inch inside.

"So good," Draco whispered, and it was. But Jack knew it could be immensely better if the man would just move. To prove his point he flattened himself against the wall. The front of his body felt freezing cold, all save his nipple that throbbed from another brutal pinch, and his dick, now a blade hot enough to slice through the brick like it was made of wax. Draco, unsheathed, now re-entered, as slowly as before but this time pressed flush against Jack's back. His admonishment soaked like silken lotion into Jack's skin. "You're an impatient man, Captain Harkness. You'll never find your friend if you don't slow down."

"Ianto," he croaked, a slow withdrawal choking his thoughts. "You know where Ianto is?"

"I do."

Hips slapped forward, Draco indulging him with a slow, rippling rhythm. Jack's body and mind warred, his curiosity struggling to stay afloat on the swelling waves of pleasure.

"Tell me." A faster rhythm was Draco's only response. "Tell me," Jack insisted louder. Now a hand slid around to circle his erection.

"Shhh … he's fine. He's at his class reunion." An amused puff of breath tickled Jack's nape. "Nothing safer than that, right?"

"Reunion?"

A tight warning fist clenched around Jack's cock. "Yes, Jones is at this moment catching up on a decade of what passes for excitement to a Ravenclaw. Meanwhile, you're taking it up the arse. Which would you really rather focus on right now?"

Draco's hips ground hard, Jack landing flush against the wall. "You have a point."

"Glad you agree. Now if you're quite finished…"

Not waiting for an answer, his free arm slipped around Jack's waist, yanking Jack roughly onto his cock, ploughing him deeper than before. The walls echoed with the slap of flesh against flesh, with the squelch of each piercing thrust. Jack felt weightless again, pinioned on pistoning hips. Fierce, violent, and so satisfying, eliciting a groan so loud that Jack was sure it must have shaken the bottles in the bar. Jack didn't care, he was too far gone. Pleasure spiked through him with each thrust, sensations seeping through his spongy insides to his hungry bowels. It surged into his curling toes and straining calves, into his shoulders strung tight as wire, into the treacherous black space behind his eyeballs.

Sensing the unstoppable, Draco's hand sped up. So close, so damn close. Prying his eyes open Jack looked down. That was all it took. One second of white fingers flying over lurid purple flesh, then an explosion of pinpoint stars. Brightness becoming brighter he whited out, lost to sensations so intense they felt almost excruciating. Vaguely he felt a body collapse, simply a warm weight pressing against his back as agonising relief gushed through every cell.

Awareness returned slow, and only after Draco had pulled away. Jack shook his head; it hadn't been that long since his last hook-up, but this … this had really been something. He tore a strip of bog roll and turned, ready to offer the roll to Draco, surprised to find the man already fastening unsullied trousers. Jack shook his head again; he must be more sluggish than he thought.

His mind crept back to the question still nagging. "So now will you tell me where Ianto is?"

"No," Draco replied smugly, appraising himself in the cracked mirror. "But I just might tell him you're looking for him."

Jack grit his teeth, flustered but trying his best not to show it. "Where is Ianto?"

"Right now? Probably in the library, knee-deep in nostalgia. Actually, it's time for me to trudge through those old memories myself." He didn't bother to repress his shudder, but then smiled enticingly. "I appreciate the distraction from the dreadful evening ahead."

Not waiting for Jack to respond, he flung the door wide. Jack followed an instant later, but Draco had already disappeared.

*****

He always pictured Hogwarts' entrance hall as huge, even cavernous, just like it was when he'd first stood there seventeen years before. Now he realised its ceiling wasn't as high as the Hub's, and while the hall was still wider, the sepia grandeur of his mind's eye had faded to ordinary beige.

Its magic, however, was undeniable.

 _"Welcome,"_ proclaimed golden script sparkling across the empty air. A nametag appeared on his blazer. "Ianto Jones (Ravenclaw)" it read, and under that was written "Torchwood Institute." _"So much for secret organizations,"_ thought Ianto.

The twinkling message continued. _"You are now registered. Please join your classmates for a reception and ball in the Great Hall at seven o'clock. Until that time, feel free to reacquaint yourself with your favourite spots around the castle."_

The words shimmered, suspended like raindrops in the wind, but by the time Ianto had checked his pocket watch they had faded. Like so much magic: just a flashy trick, no permanence. Exactly why he'd left this world. Still, as Ianto braved the library's shifting stairwell, he had to admit his spirits were lifted just for having seen it.

If the entrance hall had lost its magnitude, the stairs certainly hadn't. His legs were protesting before he was halfway there; he envied his younger self dashing nimbly around this castle. But at last he arrived to the fourth floor. His fingers caressed the library's broad double doors, reverence in his touch as it connected with the ancient brass doorknob. This at least had not changed.

Nor had what he found inside. In the stacks, at their old study table, were gathered his old friends.

"Ianto!"

Mandy tackled him with squeals and a tight hug; he'd only just recovered his balance when Morag took her place. Looking over her shoulder he saw Terry grin sympathetically, obviously having suffered this himself. Michael was there too, his arm slung over the back of Lisa's chair while she whispered to Padma. A decade vanished in an instant, so familiar was the scene.

Terry waved him to the empty chair by his side. "This place hasn't changed a bit, has it?"

"Not at all! I expect Madam Pince to scold us for being too loud."

Lisa shook her head. "She went to Professor Sprout's office." Michael made a tippling motion with his hand, which she playfully slapped away. "She asked us to look after things."

"That would _never_ have happened before."

"We're supposed to be adults now," smirked Terry, pulling a face that Ianto recognised from first year Potions. It sparked a flurry of laughter that flowed into easy conversation until Terry's voice broke through. "So Ianto, we were just catching up … we've got three Ministry employees, one Gringotts' liaison, and Padma will be running Flourish & Blott's within the year." He squinted at Ianto's nametag. "So what's this Torchwood Institute do?"

Ianto had imagined this moment, but hadn't anticipated just how enjoyable it would be to say, "We catch aliens." He barely kept a straight face when their jaws dropped and they stared blankly. "No, really. We do."

Finally Mandy said what he knew they were all thinking. "But … there are no such things as aliens."

"Funny, that's what they say about magic."

He had never talked to any outsiders about Torchwood. Now it all came pouring out, and like typical Ravenclaws his classmates still wanted to know more: how the rift worked, which alien species they'd encountered, why Retcon was preferred to Obliviation spells. Ianto realised that he'd started thinking like a Muggle when Michael asked this last question. "Honestly, I don't think about using spells anymore. I don't even carry my wand."

His classmates seemed as shocked by this behaviour as by the notion that aliens existed.

"It's nothing like in the old days with You Kno-- with Voldemort," admitted Padma, "but I surely wouldn't feel safe without mine."

Ianto glanced up as the library doors creaked open, expecting the arrival of another Ravenclaw classmate. The one they'd called the Prince of Slytherin stood there instead, staring inexplicably at _him_. Ianto had steered clear of Draco Malfoy during their Hogwarts days. It was awfully unnerving to be the object of his gaze now.

Noticing Ianto's discomfort, Michael said, loudly enough for his voice to carry across the library, "Yeah, you need to carry your wand, Ianto. You never know when you might run into a Death Eater."

"Shame they didn't lock them all away," added Terry with a malicious sneer. "Or better yet, set the Dementors on them. It's what they deserve."

Malfoy's face didn't change, he didn't even blink, although there was no way he could have missed the words. If it had been anybody else, Ianto might have felt some pity. But not now, not for the head of the Inquisitorial Squad, supreme bully of Hogwarts. Ianto just wanted him to go away, whatever it took.

Malfoy stared for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind about something. With the same haughtiness as when he'd entered, he spun on his heel and left.

"Good riddance," scoffed Padma. "I wonder what Harry will say when he sees Malfoy's crawled out of his hole."

Ianto nodded with the others. No matter how many years had passed, no matter how much as they all had grown, some things would never change. The Potter-Malfoy rivalry was every bit as enduring as these castle stones.

*****

He stepped crisply into Hogwarts' entrance hall as if he owned it. In effect, he probably did. Between the hefty cheques his father had written to the Hogwarts Board after the war ("tokens of good will," Father called them, but they were as good as reparations) and the sizeable donations he himself contributed each year, at least half of Hogwarts should bear the Malfoy name.

And yet there was no one here to greet him. Typical.

 _"Welcome,"_ proclaimed golden script sparkling across the empty air. A nametag appeared on his suit jacket. "Draco Malfoy (Slytherin)" it read, and under that was written "Partner, Mage Investments." A light touch of his wand incinerated the tag, leaving his Prada lapel unblemished.

The twinkling message continued unabated. _You are now registered. Please join your classmates for a reception and ball in the Great Hall at seven o'clock. Until that time, feel free to reacquaint yourself with your favourite places around the castle."_

Draco had then attempted his good deed of the decade by trudging upstairs to find the Ravenclaws. Their reception reminded him why Malfoys did not perform good deeds. Let Harkness stew in that wretched pub a while; he'd be in a right state when Ianto returned. Draco brightened, picturing how entertaining that meeting would be.

His mood lifted further when he reached the Slytherin dungeon. His friends were all there, dressed to the nines. Like him, they'd come dressed to impress—even Greg was sporting a new robe from Y-3's latest line. He was especially pleased to note that their nametags all disappeared shortly after his arrival.

The Slytherins had arranged their own reception, of course. Pansy's house-elves had combed the markets of Fes el Bali for the finest Moroccan delicacies. Draco raised his eyebrow at the trays heaving with kefta, kebabs, and savoury slices of honey-soaked phyllo. "We're adults now. There's absolutely no reason to eat McGonagall's _haggis_!" Pansy exclaimed, horrified.

Draco motioned for her to sit beside him; she did one better, arranging herself on his lap. "So tell me, darling," she said, flashing the ostentatious diamond on her ring finger, "'Pansy Peasegood.' Do you think it works or no?"

Draco studied the ring, then glanced at Pansy's intended, ostensibly engrossed in conversation with Queenie but keeping a sharp eye on her. "Well, you wouldn't need to change your initials. I suppose there's some advantage in that."

"This is true. I do write exquisite _P_ s. But he _is_ an American."

"A very wealthy American, Pans. And he adores you for some unfathomable reason."

"Because I'm unfathomably irresistible, as you'd know yourself if you weren't a poof." She wiggled shamelessly on his lap to prove her point, as if her revealing lace bustier might sway him to the other side. "Speaking of which, I was sure you'd bring one of your pretty Frenchies along."

"Are you joking? There's no one I'd subject to you lot."

Pansy slapped his shoulder playfully. "Be nice. I just thought you'd want to make him jealous."

Draco tensed, although he replied with practised calm, "And whom might that be?"

"I can't believe it," she sighed dramatically. "Still in denial, aren't you? It's been ten years."

"Pans," he said, feigning a look of befuddlement, "I haven't the slightest what you're on about."

She stood, glowering dramatically down at him. "Draco Malfoy, you are utterly hopeless. I wash my hands of you."

Snickering, Blaise watched Pansy flounce off before taking the empty spot on the settee. His date ( _Abigail? Abilene?_ Draco had forgotten seconds after being introduced) squeezed in beside him, while Greg sprawled on the cushioned armchair. "What was that all about?" he asked.

Draco shrugged. Pansy was often puzzling; this could easily be written off as her usual histrionics. "I fear that her engagement has addled her mind."

"Speaking of engagements," said Blaise in that sly tone that foretold of meddling and mischief, "I saw Potter earlier. He's single again, you know."

Evilly, Draco smirked. "How humiliating for him."

"I thought you might say that." Blaise smiled, but it wasn't evil, it was … well, it was as close to enigmatic as Zabini was likely to come. The man would never be capable of a poker face. Draco suddenly found his blatancy intolerable.

"C'mon, Greg," he said, launching himself from the settee. His oldest friend could be trusted not to surprise him. "I think we need to get pissed."

Much later, and much tipsier, the Slytherins made their grand entrance. The dance was in full swing by then. _"Another cheesy wizard-rock band,"_ Draco thought disparagingly. It was humiliating to think he'd once listened to this stuff. Even more so to see people his age dancing to it now.

This thought no sooner crossed his mind than Pansy pulled Blaise onto the dance floor; Millicent grabbed an unsuspecting Greg seconds later. His other classmates quickly joined in, leaving Draco standing alone. Which suited him just fine, as it presented the opportunity to scan the dance floor in search of Potter. Simply a reflex action, surely, this instinctive need to know his rival's location, necessary to guard against sneak attacks … and to plan his own. It was impossible to see, though; the Grand Hall was darker than he ever remembered it being when he was in school. The only light shone down from radiant faeries flying several feet above the crowd. The magical equivalent of disco balls in Muggle clubs, they swayed in time with the music, their movements casting shadows and obscuring faces. No, they'd never have dared this during his days at Hogwarts. This kind of darkness invited mischief; the child in Draco practically salivated at the thought.

No sign of Potter, however. He even checked the edges of the crowd where the Gryffindor hero might be hiding, heartbroken. The thought of Potter sobbing in a corner amused Draco greatly—dumped by a Hufflepuff indeed!—and he was disappointed when his shamed rival was nowhere to be found.

He turned his attention to the dance floor instead, wincing to see that gangly, uncoordinated teens had grown into less gangly but more uncoordinated adults. And as much as Draco might want to believe wizards superior in all things, Montréal's sex clubs had proven him wrong. He'd been introduced to a whole new magic in those steamy classrooms, where heavy bass beats taught his feet to move, where music and sex washed over the crowd, flowed into his limbs, loosened his stiff bones.

The music shifted from a power ballad popular during their sixth year to the faster dance beats from the WWN's recent charts. With its pumping rhythm it would not have been out of place at one of those clubs, save for its lyrics:

 _Fair is foul, and foul is fair,  
Hover through fog and filthy air..._

Spell words familiar to any wizard, but backed by this hypnotic syncopation they conjured a powerful sensuality. Half the dance floor cleared, leaving gusts of embarrassed laughter filling the empty spaces and offering Draco a better vantage point. His eye landed on a man dancing in the centre of the room. His face was shadowed but even from behind his body enticed. Draco noted the well-cut suit, the dark hair, the smooth sensuality that wouldn't be out of place at Club Tools. Suddenly he decided this dance might not be so bad as all that. Drawing himself up to his full Malfoy stature, Draco stepped onto the floor.

*****

Gryffindor House arrived at the reunion en masse. They'd met earlier at Madam Puddifoot's; it was Hermione's joking suggestion, but once word spread about the "pre-union," the small café overflowed with their classmates.

Harry hadn't expected it to be this enjoyable, being with everyone again. This wasn't the first time he'd seen them. Most worked in the Ministry; the rest visited Diagon frequently and kept in touch. But being here now, with the women donning the latest witchery couture and the men in stylish suits, it was clear how far they'd all come. In his new Hugo Boss suit, Harry certainly felt the part—and as everyone remarked on how different he looked, he wondered if they all still pictured him in baggy trousers and threadbare jumpers.

Madam Puddifoot's tea (spiked with copious amounts of Ogden's) kept them talking far longer than expected. The sky was streaked pink and orange by the time they finally made their way to the castle.

 _"Welcome,"_ proclaimed golden script as soon as they crossed the threshold. "Harry Potter (Gryffindor)" read the nametag on his lapel, and under that was written simply "Auror." _You are now registered,"_ the twinkling message continued. _"The reception is already underway in the Great Hall. You should join your classmates there"_

 _"at your leisure,"_ it added after a pause, as if reluctantly.

"It didn't scold us for being late," Parvati noticed, her eyes wide.

"You know it wanted to though," insisted Dean.

"Guess it reckoned Hermione already had."

Ron jumped aside, pulling a face as he dodged Hermione's slap. "We're supposed to be adults now," she sniffed in mock-indignation.

Harry spent the next hour chatting with professors and students from other Houses, sampling nibbles from airborne trays, and keeping an eye out for two men. One arrived shortly after he did, bustling through the door with that frantic energy that Harry knew too well. Soon they were standing shoulder to shoulder at the bar.

"Wow, Harry. You always did clean up well, but … wow."

 _"Eat your heart out,"_ Harry thought. "It's all Hermione's doing," he said aloud. "She insisted I look respectable."

"Her idea, maybe, but you're the one pulling it off." Harry flushed warm at the compliment; he ducked into his drink, leaving Justin to continue as Harry knew he would. "So how've you been? You look … well, you look good, but I think I already said that."

His ex grinned, acknowledging his rambling, and Harry couldn't help grinning back. "I am good, thanks. And you're looking well yourself." Except for his blond hair, cropped too short since they'd split up; Harry preferred it hanging loose over his shoulders. "So where's Marietta?"

"She couldn't get out of her shift at St. Mungo's. Said I'd have more fun without her anyway."

Harry chuckled. "In that case, you'll have to save me a dance."

"Will do."

Hermione was at Harry's elbow as soon as Justin departed. "Everything okay?"

"I asked him to dance."

"Harry!"

Harry held up his hands in surrender. "Relax, we're just friends. It doesn't mean we're getting back together."

"I know. But you promised you'd dance with Malfoy tonight."

Being stupefied couldn't have surprised him more. "I … I did?"

Professor McGonagall chose that moment to introduce the Bag End Blowers, a raggle-taggle band who kicked off the show with "A Cauldron Full Of Hot, Strong Love." The Weird Sisters' cover was guaranteed to win over the crowd; even Harry followed Hermione onto the dance floor, although he was still stunned by her words.

 _Dance with Malfoy?_ Of all the crazy ideas. Sure, he might keep an eye on his rival—might indeed have kept an eye pealed all night—and he might have followed the business pages, noting with surprise Malfoy's success in the emerging Muggle-magic investment markets. And yes, that pointy chin and sneering mouth might feature in Harry's favourite fantasy, one that he called up in his most private moments. But none of that was _any_ business of Hermione's, and he _certainly_ hadn't promised to dance with him!

Not that it mattered. Malfoy wasn't here, and in all likelihood wouldn't show at all. As the night wore on, relief at this thought wrestled with a confusing hollow disappointment.

But midway through the second set the Slytherins appeared. The sight of that unmistakeable silver hair, brighter than even in his memory, almost stole Harry's breath. No one else had ever had hair that colour, so bright that the fairy lights dimmed in comparison. He watched the Slytherins flood the dance floor, all except Malfoy, who circled like a shark, hunting. Once he looked in Harry's direction, but out of habit, Harry ducked out of sight behind Neville.

The band's next song was a hard-driving electronic number with a throbbing baseline that seemed to shake the foundations of the castle. The Slytherins stayed, of course, as did a few other brave couples, but the Gryffindors, laughing, cleared the floor. Harry followed, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"You said to save a dance."

Harry leaned against Justin's arm. "The _Prophet_ would love this, wouldn't they?"

Justin grinned and looped an arm around Harry's waist, leading him to the floor just like he had so many times at the clubs in London. A thigh wedged between Harry's, giving him no choice but to embrace the rhythm as Justin moved them into the crowd. The brave souls that remained had drawn tighter together, creating the illusion of a real dance floor, of those closed spaces where random bodies could collide and connect. The music was made for this, dancing flowing into foreplay flowing into sex—images he probably should avoid this close to his ex unless they really intended to give the _Prophet_ a scoop.

Harry stepped away from Justin, leaving space for another body between them. In that moment he saw Malfoy finally approach, crossing the dance floor with a malevolent sense of purpose. Harry's suspicions were confirmed when he slipped behind another man and began a slow, undeniably sexual grind.

"What is it?" Justin moved so as to turn around.

"No, stay there," Harry hissed, peering over his shoulder. "It's Malfoy. I want to see what he's doing."

"Merlin, not Malfoy again!"

"Huh?"

But his mind was on Malfoy's target: Ianto Jones. Not someone Harry would ever have pictured with the Slytherin. Ianto looked unsettled, but Malfoy said something and then slid his arms around the Ravenclaw. Tighter than they needed to be, no doubt, and Harry watched for evidence of the other man's struggle. As they began to move together, Ianto apparently a willing victim, Harry's stomach twisted uncomfortably. He moved closer to Justin, using him as a shield to manoeuvre towards the other couple.

"I need to hear…"

"Really, Harry, this was annoying enough when we were together. Now it's just a bore."

"Hmm … what was?"

Ianto's hand sat on the small of Malfoy's back, synching their steps, fusing their bodies with this relentless rhythm. Fire streaked through Harry at the sight— _Merlin, he'd never seen Malfoy move like this before!_ —and inexplicably tightened his arm around Justin's waist. Justin closed his eyes, sighing heavily enough to be heard over the music.

"This obsession, Harry, it's been ten years."

Harry hardly heard Justin's words. The Ravenclaw had just leaned back, obviously shocked by what Malfoy had said.

"Huh? Um, we just need to get a bit closer. Here, let's…"

Harry turned them around, his back now to Draco, so close that, if not for the music, he could have caught snatches of their conversation. So attuned to sounds, he hardly noticed when someone pressed against him. His hips took notice, though, slipping into this new rhythm between the two men like they were born to it. Like his body had been incomplete without the hard press of bodies on both sides. He heard a sharp grunt in his ear and belatedly realised it was Malfoy's. Unexpectedly aroused by the sound, he ground shamelessly against Justin as the song whipped towards its frenzied climax. Fire ignited his feet, the beats obliterated his thoughts, and the acrid scent of sweat dripped down the back of his throat, leaving him ravenous. Merlin, he could come like this, he was sure, if only the song would keep going. And as embarrassing as that would be, he wasn't sure he wanted it to stop.

But then, with a frantic swirl of notes, the song ended. As the band left the stage, Harry gasped for breath and grinned at Justin. His ex returned his look with a surprisingly angry glare.

"Guess you finally got what you want, Harry."

He stomped off, leaving Harry baffled until he realised what had just happened, and with whom. His heart stopped. He really didn't want to turn around.

"Potter."

Reluctantly, Harry turned to see Malfoy. With fairy lights shining down, casting them in bluish light, his rival's face might have been carved from frost, with that same conceit that Harry had hated since he was eleven years old.

 _"No no no no no…"_

But denial could not deflate his body's reaction; nor could it remove the scorn from his rival's voice. "You'd better go after your Hufflepuff, Potter. You wouldn't want him to get away."

Harry had stood against Voldemort and his band of Death Eaters. He'd rebuilt the Auror Department, ensuring that evildoers quaked at the very mention of Harry Potter. He'd faced Molly Weasley, telling her that he was gay and would not marry her only daughter. But all of these feats paled in comparison with the spectre he now faced.

Courage be damned. Harry turned tail and fled.

Halfway out the door, he heard Hermione call, "When I said to dance with Malfoy, that wasn't quite what I meant."

*****

After spending hours in the pub, Jack decided that Hogsmeade was the least friendly village in all of Scotland. He'd attempted conversation with a handful of patrons, but not one was as attractive as that first man, and standoffish as he'd been, he still proved the most sociable of the lot. The rest merely offered shifty looks and stern headshakes.

Jack left the bar at last call, surprised to find the sky still glowing pale. That would help the long drive back to Ullapool, according to all accounts the nearest town with a hotel, but he would gladly have traded half of his everlasting life for one of Ianto's espressos before hitting the road.

He never even got behind the wheel, however. He returned to the SUV to find the rift detector screaming for attention, its energy readings showing rift activity akin to a ghost shift right in this backwater hamlet. His first thought was of ringing Tosh, just to hear her drool, before fury overwhelmed him. Ianto must have expected this, but instead of telling Torchwood—instead of telling Jack!—he'd taken off on his own. Jack swore that when he found him, he'd wring his neck, pretty silk tie and all.

With the portable detector buzzing in his hand, Jack tried to pinpoint the rift's source. The signal weakened as he walked away from the old train station, and lit up like a fireworks show when he returned to the crumbling stone platform. But that couldn't be right. With that much energy he should see _something_ —reflections, shadows, incorporeal shapes of some ilk—but there was nothing but darkening sky on a cold mountainside.

"Damn it, Ianto Jones, where the hell are you?"

His words drew themselves out until they weren't his voice anymore, until they sounded deeper, like they came from the centre of a paper towel roll. And when they faded into the night, Jack blinked; he was in another world. No, the same world, the same sky, the crags still reflecting the last traces of sunset. But this place was fleshed out on the bones of the other. Here bright lanterns festooned a bustling village of gaily painted shops. The cobblestone street teemed with oddly dressed people—at least he _assumed_ they were people, he was usually pretty good at distinguishing human from alien species, _"excepting that time on Maldora Minor,"_ he reminded himself, and then froze. _"Did that Irish wolfhound just_ turn into a person _? And that man, did he_ drop out of the sky _? And what are all the lanterns connected to? They're just_ floating _in thin air!"_

It wasn't a simple time displacement. He was caught in some kind of alternate reality that existed in the same time and space as the real world … and that simply wasn't possible. Well, a Time Lord could manage it, and a Time Agent might make an effort. But on a human scale, no, not possible at all.

And yet here it was.

His eyes peeled for Ianto, Jack mingled into the crowd, his smile pleasant but his guard attuned to any possible threat. Vigilance was difficult, though, surrounded by these festive young people who seemed anything but dangerous. In fact, if not for their old-fashioned costumes, the ladies approaching him could pass for a hen party in Cardiff. Jack fixed his eye on the prettiest of the bunch, a petite woman with pitch black hair, clad in a tight bustier of emerald lace.

"Good evening, ladies."

The pretty one stepped forward, her swaying hips warning Jack that she could be trouble. But just before she spoke a foul smell assaulted them.

"Greg!" she cried, pinching her nose. "How childish!"

Disgusted, she gathered the folds of her long skirt and dashed towards a nearby pub. Her friends trailed behind, leaving Jack standing with the perpetrator.

"It was just a dungbomb, Pans!" The man shrugged as if that explained everything. To Jack's susprise, he wore what look like plaid barrister's robes; when he wiped his soiled hands on them, it left a streak of filth along the hem.

"Maybe not the best way to impress a lady," Jack advised.

He shrugged again.

 _"Apparently not the brightest bulb—perfect for a few questions."_ Smiling, Jack offered his handkerchief in lieu of a handshake. "I don't suppose you could help me? I think I took a wrong turn somewhere and I'm not exactly sure where I am."

Beady eyes studied the handkerchief with suspicion. "You're a Muggle?"

Unsure how to respond, Jack chose deflection. "I'm Captain Jack Harkness." His hands clasped behind his back on the off chance that this man might still offer a hand to shake. "And you are?"

"Goyle. Greg Goyle." His apprehensive cadence destroyed any hint of Bond-ness he might have hoped for, but the stick that suddenly appeared, pointed squarely at Jack's chest, was worrying enough. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Oh, I am," Jack assured him, enlisting his broadest grin to prove his trustworthiness. "I'm actually meeting someone. Ianto Jones." _"Fuck,"_ he thought as Goyle stared blankly, _"What was that other man's name?"_ Jack pictured those unearthly eyes and it came back to him. "...and Draco Malfoy."

"You know Draco?"

"Oh, Draco and I go way back." When the stick dropped a fraction, Jack laid it on thicker. "Yeah ... we work together in Montréal."

"Well, why didn't you say so?" The stick disappeared and the man waved his hand to follow. "He left the dance early, but he's probably in the pub."

The Three Broomsticks could not have been more different from the pub in Hogsmeade—the other Hogsmeade, the black-and-white film version of this vibrant place. Cheerful cherrywoods greeted the patrons— _"Ianto's classmates,"_ Jack thought, studying their outlandish dress. He'd rarely seen Ianto in anything but a suit; imagining him in plaid barrister's robes was impossible. There was no sign of him in any case.

Draco, however, was nursing a tumbler on the far side of the bar. Jack sidled up beside him.

"You really shouldn't drink alone."

Jack heard the faint snort. "You're a fine one to talk."

Goyle hovered between them like a sentry. "He says he knows you."

"Did he now?" Draco lifted steely eyes to Jack's before tipping his chin slightly, signalling Goyle's quick exit. "Care for a drink, Jack? I'm sure you'll enjoy the local specialty."

"Don't mind if I do."

Draco's hand fluttered and a pair of tumblers appeared. Not sure whether that or the smoke billowing off them was the more surprising, Jack just gaped.

"Ogden's firewhisky. Quite palatable if your tastebuds have a Flame-Freezing Charm." At Jack's dubious look he added, "It's not actual fire, although the first sip is rather piquant."

Draco took the first drink as if to reassure; Jack reluctantly followed suit, nearly choking as the liquor scorched his throat. "How long have you been drinking these?" he gasped.

"Since I was fifteen. But tonight, not nearly long enough. So you found Ianto, I take it?"

"No, not yet." Draco was surprised by this, Jack could see. "Have you seen him?"

"I have. He should be here. If he doesn't arrive soon, I'll fetch him for you." His companion's eyes narrowed curiously. "But first, how did you get here?"

"I'm not sure. One minute I was on a train platform, and the next I was here." The second sip of his drink went down more smoothly; he didn't quite long for asbestos coating on his tongue. "To tell you the truth, I'm not entirely sure where here is."

"Here is Hogsmeade, of course. The real Hogsmeade. With shamefully weak wards, I might add. Did you say his name perchance?"

"I might have," considered Jack. "Yes, yes I did. I asked where the hell he was."

"That explains it, then. The wards are opened for guests, as long as you can identify yourself. Or them, to be more precise."

Draco looked like something had just been settled. Jack, on the other hand, was more confused than ever. "But what about that other place--"

"Where you were earlier? That's just the pale Muggle imitation."

"Muggle?"

Draco paused, smiling, his drink halfway to his lips. "Ianto's not told you much, has he?"

Jack frowned. "I'm starting to think he hasn't."

"You're a Muggle, a non-magical person. And I'm a wizard. And these fine people you see are my former classmates from the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. We're celebrating ten years of not seeing each other."

Jack had heard stranger things, although admittedly not often, and not on earth. But what struck him most was the biting tone of Draco's voice. "Not one for nostalgia, are you?"

"Let's just say it looks better from a distance."

"And you're a wizard?"

"From a long and distinguished magical line. Not that that matters anymore, of course." Jack wasn't as surprised as he should have been, after all he'd seen, but that must have come across as scepticism because Draco exhaled wearily. "Oh, fine. _Mobilimembrana_."

A pair of bar mats sprung to life, waltzing together across the bar. They twirled in the air before inserting themselves under two fresh drinks.

"Impressive." Jack's voice dropped to a purr. "But you've got better tricks than that."

"Ah, yes, that." Draco had a nice smile when he wasn't moping, Jack noticed. "Highly illegal, using that spell with Muggles. Not that I've had any complaints."

"No, I wouldn't imagine so. And Ianto," he asked hopefully. His questions for Ianto were mounting with each passing moment. Really, if he was the one who possessed magical powers, he'd have damn well made sure they had a better way to communicate. But this might be even more promising. "He knows that spell, too?"

"It's in _The Joy of Wizard Sex_ so he must. Not like a Ravenclaw to miss something from a book." Jack's puzzlement prompted Draco to explain. "Ravenclaw—that's his House at Hogwarts. Real bookslugs they are. Whether he uses it or not is a different sto--" Draco faltered mid-sentence, his eyes locked on the doorway for an instant before returning to his smoky glass. "Well, you'd have to ask him."

Jack's thoughts of sex spells and enchanted Bluetooths vanished at the sight of a man in the doorway, staring intently at them. "Someone you don't want to see?"

"Yeah … no, I knew I would see him, I just …" Draco paused, his thumb tracing the lip of his glass as he composed himself. He didn't seem the sort who liked being discombobulated. "It hasn't gone quite the way I'd expected."

"The one who got away?" _"Striking men, both of them,"_ Jack thought, appreciating the image they presented together.

"Hardly," Draco snorted softly. "We hated each other in school."

"Ah, old rivals then. They're even harder to escape. I've tried for a century." Draco's eyebrow twisted in curiosity, but he didn't interrupt. "Mine, he joined the Agency the same day as I did. I thought we'd end up best friends, but he always had to outplay me, outshoot me."

"What a prat. Sounds familiar, though."

Jack tapped the epaulette on his coat. "I've still got the burn from a sonic blaster on my shoulder."

Draco pursed his lips sympathetically. "Yeah, that sounds awfully familiar. Potter sliced me open with an illegal spell." Draco touched his fingers to a spot underneath his silk tie, gingerly as if the skin was still tender.

"The very day we got our vortex manipulators," Jack confided as he leaned forward, his hands as animated as his long-forgotten memories, "he landed us both right into the Hetressian Hot Zone. We hid in a phthalate trench for three days before they could retrieve us!"

Draco nodded vigorously. "I got my first detention because of him. This psychotic Dark Wizard was on the loose, and they sent the two us into the Forbidden Forest without a single defensive spell to our names!"

"He never served a day of detention, not even when he went AWOL to con the Liege of Enurtur." Jack chuckled at the long-forgotten memory. "Talked his way right out of it, the bastard."

Rolling his eyes, Draco shot back, "Yes, Potter always got special treatment too. He even got to play Quidditch in first year. Special allowances just because the teachers loved him."

They paused for another long drink, their wry grins fading as silence crept back. Silent, Draco's face looked hollow, skin pulled too tightly over his skull. Only his eyes looked alive, and they flickered across the room to the man sitting with his friends. Jack had already noted the other man's frequent glances in their direction. The two were like magnets charged to eternally repel each other. But charges could be reversed, Jack knew, and people could change, even cynical Time Agents. And why was he thinking like this anyway? Carefully Jack set down his glass.

Without taking his eyes off the other man Draco asked, "Did you ever want to kill him?"

Tilting his glass, Jack waited until a narrow column of smoke puffed over the rim. "I thought I did, sometimes. Mostly I just forgot what I wanted. All that mattered was beating him." He stopped suddenly, peering into his drink. "You know, I haven't thought about this in years. There's not some kind of truth serum in here, is there?"

Draco scrutinized his glass before shaking his head. "I doubt it. Veritaserum's tricky to get these days." He glared at it once more, looking not entirely convinced, then set it down too deliberately. Jack wondered if his companion was more affected by the alcohol than he let on. "So what happened to him?"

"I lost him. I thought he'd always be there, and then he was gone." This drink, this strange place, they were opening doors he'd closed long, long ago. He surprised himself by admitting, "Sometimes I think I'd give anything to find him again."

"What if you did?"

"I'd punch his lights out, and then I'd…" Jack finished the last swallow of whisky, letting the searing burn cauterise his memories. "It doesn't matter. It's not like I'll ever have another chance. I think you were right, nostalgia really does look better from far away."

"I'll drink to that." Another set of glasses appeared before them, warm tendrils of smoke just starting to tickle Jack's nose, when the pub door swung open. From out of the night stepped Ianto Jones who, for all his surprises, Jack thought might be turning out to be the best thing about this current lifetime.

Except when he stormed in, furious as he was now.

"You are not supposed to be here."

*****

"Wait up, Ianto!"

Despite being grateful that Jack had followed him from the Broomsticks, Ianto didn't slow his long strides. The last thing he wanted was to have this out with his boss in front of the Hogwarts alumni still wandering through the village. It was bad enough that Malfoy had gotten involved. Ianto shuddered at the disturbing memory of that dance. It had been shocking to hear the class bully mention Jack's name, but even more worrying was how Ianto could almost still feel the imprint of hands on his hips, his pent-up arousal that he'd buried deep and violently as soon as Malfoy took his leave. And then to see the two of them sitting at the bar, chatting like old friends…

"What are you doing here, Jack?" he growled.

"I came to find you!" Jack said. Ianto was pleased to notice he sounded a little breathless. He sped his steps up by a notch. "You wouldn't say where you were going, so I put a tracker in your car."

Right. Because he could not be trusted, and all those apologies and attempts to atone for his betrayal of Torchwood had been for naught. Jack had offered his forgiveness, offered another chance as if he'd meant it, but he didn't. He couldn't. Ianto would forever bear the presumption of guilt.

But the truth of it was that he _was_ guilty. He did have a secret, one bigger even than Lisa. And he needed to keep it.

"Ianto, wait! We need to talk about this."

Ianto froze, foot on the first step to Hogsmeade Station, fists clenched to restrain the sharp tongue that he would surely regret unleashing on his boss. Talk was the last thing they needed, especially when Jack's way of talking made Ianto imagine things untenable. Absolution. Honesty. Maybe even genuine affection. Silver-tongued persuasion had never sounded so good as it did on Jack's lickable lips.

No. Jack needed to be returned to the Muggle world. Jack had to be Obliviated. And Ianto must make sure that he never, ever did anything again that hinted he was more than a teaboy.

Jack caught him up while he hesitated, spurring Ianto to repeat what he'd said before. "You should not be here."

"Ianto, you're a wizard! Why didn't you tell me?"

And wasn't that just like the man? Ignoring what was important, latching onto whatever thoughts interested him. Positively infuriating. Ianto answered with clipped precision, wondering when his long-forgotten hex reflex had re-emerged. "There are rules that prevent us from revealing our true existence. Not unlike yourself." Ianto was pleased at getting Jack's attention, albeit a bit disappointed that Jack had underestimated him. Who did he think ran Torchwood's archives anyway? He'd been trusted with those secrets, just like he had governed his own. And with that thought to brace him, his oak wand slid into his palm. "We also have our own version of Retcon for cases like this."

"You'd rather do that than explain why you lied to me?"

Jack's voice wasn't angry. Anger, Ianto could have dealt with. But this quiet resignation was crushing. This was about trust, after all, and why Ianto would never have it. He steeled himself with rationality and the explanation that hopefully Jack could appreciate. "I … I didn't lie. I couldn't tell you. Our secret is more closely guarded than Torchwood's." And wasn't that the truth. No one had ever declared themselves a wizard when ordering pizza. "It has to be that way, Jack. When we're discovered, people aren't just upset, they're terrified. Look at the witch hunts, Jack, the Inquisition, Salem…"

"I didn't say I wanted it broadcast to the world," Jack interrupted, "but you should have told _me_. I need to know what you can do, just like I need to make sure Gwen can shoot straight and Tosh can hack any network."

Jack didn't get it. He couldn't, Ianto knew, and that wasn't his fault. Ianto wasn't sure he got it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd erased someone's memories. He'd never doubted that it was for the best. But this … this was _Jack_ , his boss, head of Torchwood Three. Surely there were exceptions?

But no, there weren't. There were responsibilities of possessing magic, Ianto had learned that when he'd gotten his wand. But he had responsibilities to Jack as well, and Ianto knew he had to try to explain—Jack would still be Obliviated, but first he had to understand. "This isn't a line I left off my C.V. I'm nothing special. I don't even do magic anymore."

"No?" Jack smirked. "That's a shame. I wanted to know more about this _Joy of Wizard Sex_ book."

Heat flooded Ianto's cheeks, his mouth left hanging open around the comeback he wanted to make. Jack noticed, of course he noticed, and he laughed as he reached for Ianto. The coarse wool tickled Ianto's chin but Jack's hands felt strong on his back. He leaned into them, content to breathe in the faint scent of Jack's aftershave, putting off the chore of Obliviation until later.

And then he heard words that made him think it might be very much later indeed.

"You are special, Ianto Jones. I just didn't realise quite how much until tonight."

Jack's hand cupped his chin, guiding their faces closer until there was only a hair's breadth between them. They'd been this close once before. Ianto remembered the moment with startling clarity: first the panic he'd felt, the smell of death and metal around them, and then the exhilarating pressure of Jack's lips reeling him back from the brink of insanity. It surprised him how much he wanted to feel them now, and how much he wanted this time to be different. His lips moved, wishing somehow to voice this, but before words could escape Jack was kissing him. Not with the urgency of their last kiss, no. The sensation was every bit as overwhelming as it'd been last time, but this time Jack was slow and thorough, as if he wanted them both to forget that last time. Ianto had no objection to that. He opened his lips wider, releasing a surprised gasp at just how good it felt when Jack's insistent tongue plied its way inside.

But it was Ianto who pushed further the kiss that Jack seemed content to savour for hours. It was he who breached Jack's mouth with a bold slide of his tongue, his thoughts no longer on the memory of their last kiss but on the presence of this very real one. Hot and wet and so very welcoming, and Ianto needed more. Inside Jack's great coat his hands slid, across starched cloth softened by the trapped heat, across slabs of muscle that flexed under his palms as Jack pulled him closer.

Jack wrested back control with even more demanding kisses that roamed down Ianto's chin and across his jaw. Everywhere Jack touched seemed to tingle for a moment afterward, surely more than from just the cool night air, and Ianto briefly wondered what Jack's life force might truly mean—thoughts banished when Jack's teeth chomped down on his earlobe. Surprised to discover a new erogenous zone, Ianto's hips shot forward and tried to burrow into Jack's groin. Jack just chuckled warmly in his ear and, when Ianto tried to back away, gripped his bottom.

"You don't really want to leave, do you?"

As if that seductive growl weren't incentive enough to stay, Jack chose that moment to thrust forward hard enough that Ianto could feel exactly what he'd be missing. Ianto could only grunt as his back slammed against the station wall, enough answer to spark another knowing chuckle in his ear. His simmering arousal rose to full boil, his need to feel Jack without so many annoying layers of cloth in between now more urgent than ever. But first, Ianto had to make sure they weren't interrupted—and the only way he knew to do that was with magic. Reluctantly flicking his wand, he whispered the first spell he'd cast in years: "Celo occulum." As the temperature dropped like shutters around them, Jack eyed him with a mix of curiosity and glee. "A concealing charm," Ianto said shyly as Jack slid his fingers down the smooth oak stick—and who but Jack could make that look so dirty? Embarrassed, Ianto put his wand away, resorting again to comforting rationale. "It works like a time-dilation field, like the one around Hogsmea–"

Jack's response was to clamp his hands on both sides of Ianto's face, pulling him into another penetrating kiss. Seconds later fingers scrambled for his buttons, spreading his shirt wide, sliding it to the edge of his shoulders. Jack's hand raked through the thatch of dark hair there. "You are a surprise," he murmured, and Ianto wasn't sure whether he meant magic or something else, but it hardly mattered as Jack began twirling his left nipple like it was the knob on a rift detector. Ianto bit back his gasp when the teasing took on a deliciously harder edge, his flesh pebbling between nails and bites. He'd imagined that Jack would be like this, all forceful touch and sharp spikes of stimuli, but Ianto hadn't imagined that he would enjoy it quite this much.

Ianto let Jack push the shirt and jacket off his shoulders, not minding a bit when it fell to the dirty ground. He felt the rough brick of the wall against his bare back, not caring if his back was left scraped and raw. All that mattered now were Jack's hands roaming over his arms, across his chest, down his ticklish sides. Through his fingertips he seemed to be reading Ianto's skin like a blind man reading Braille. He touched everywhere, leaving Ianto flushed and feeling as aroused as he'd ever been.

Aroused, and rapidly approaching frustration as Jack's fingers slipped under his waistband and then back out again, Ianto took matters into his own hands. He wrestled with Jack's zipper, pushing unwanted trousers down his thighs and revealing the hard bulge barely constrained in his briefs. When Ianto palmed the damp cloth, pressing his fingers solid along Jack's length, Jack groaned, strangled and needy. Not a sound that Ianto had ever expected to hear from Jack's lips, so he pressed again, this time reaching further, stretching his fingertips until they just grazed the knotted sac underneath.

"Ianto…"

The unguarded desire in his name was thrilling. Ianto had imagined touching Jack like this many times, but in his fantasies he was always the one wanting. To hear Jack's need shattered his inhibitions. He plunged his hands under the elastic waistband and pushed Jack's pants down, taking hold of his impressive prize. It swelled in his hand and twitched with an impatience that reminded Ianto of Jack before his first morning espresso. Now it was Ianto's turn to torment. Delicately his thumb caressed the crown, coaxing a bead of silky liquid from the slit before his fingers ever wandered down Jack's taut shaft.

The hands that had stilled on Ianto's hips moved again, attacking his zipper with the eagerness of a child on Christmas morning. Ianto felt cool air kiss his bare skin for an instant before Jack's fingers encircled him. He thrust hard, the irresistible grip pulling him forward, his hand tightening on Jack at the same time and aligning their erections side by side. Brushing against each other, their scent grew and floated up to Ianto's nose. Raw, musky, it teemed with the life that their first kiss had lacked.

After a few long glides, knuckles grazing together, Jack took them both in hand. As long fingers stretched around his girth and Jack's cock rubbed slickly on the other side, Ianto felt his usually tight control begin to slip. He gripped Jack's hips as an anchor, the feel of sharp bones and flexing sinew grounding him enough to gaze up at Jack's face. The man was staring down at their hands, looking like he was watching something amazing and beautiful. Ianto could almost forget that this was Jack, worldly, experienced Jack. That expression, that bliss, because of him … Ianto's self-control took another running leap at that notion.

Jack's touch was expert, though, of that there was no doubt. Every downstroke sent sparks flying through Ianto's body, every upstroke left him panting more desperately. Jack kept their pace just irregular enough, keeping Ianto on that precarious edge for longer than he believed he could stand. _"This is what Jack likes, then,"_ Ianto thought, clinging to data and detachment to waylay his looming climax. With scientific precision he noted the firm, almost painfully tight pressure punctuated by the flurry of loose slides across a wet palm, the sweep of a rough thumb over the glans, the ragged groan when Ianto's fingers slipped into the crease between his cheeks. Ianto catalogued them all in the last remaining corner of his consciousness, alongside Jack's preferences for strong black coffee and sweet Tennessee whiskey.

But his thoughts were no match for the force building inside him, dangerously, recklessly, like skating too far on a razor-sharp edge and knowing his balance would inevitably betray. When he couldn't hold back anymore, when he felt his toes curl, when he knew that with his next exhalation he would release all that was inside, he whispered, "Consum uroborus."

The flush of wandless magic barely registered as his orgasm rocketed through him, but Jack's earsplitting groan told him that the Ouroboros Spell had worked. As Ianto's climax spewed jets of pearled fluid across Jack's hand the sensation ricocheted; in return Jack's orgasm slammed back over Ianto. His every sensation crackled over Ianto's exposed nerves, racing through them like flashfire, then whiplashing back into Jack in an endless circle of pleasure.

It could have been hours before the crashing stimuli subsided, as far as Ianto could tell. His body felt completely tattered, so boneless he would've been unable to stand if not propped between Jack and the wall, so deeply satisfied that he wished not to move for days. He shuddered again, a last aftershock quaking through his hips. Jack reacted with a shiver a split-second later; recalling that Muggles were more affected by these spells, Ianto touched Jack's arm to steady him.

"Are you all right?"

Jack whipped his head up, staring at him, speechless. Fleetingly, Ianto wondered if he had noticed how "sir" was choked back at the last minute, or if the spell had done more serious damage. Then he saw that Jack's eyes, too often veiled even when he was smiling, danced brightly.

"Are you joking? I've never felt better." His fingers, still curled lightly around Ianto's wilting cock, gave a little squeeze. "We're a mess, though."

"Here, let me." Ianto drew his wand, feeling strangely conspicuous as he mumbled, "Scourgify."

Jack stared at his clean hand, amazed, while Ianto retrieved his clothes. "No wonder the Hub's so neat."

Pocketing his wand with a grimace, Ianto backed away. "I don't do magic in the Hub. I don't do magic anymore, full stop."

"But you did then. Because you'd already decided to Retcon me, right?"

Jack's eyes bored into him as he dressed, so dark there was almost no hint of the blue Ianto knew was there. Ianto might have suspected legilimency if he didn't know better; as it was, Jack had managed to read his mind anyway.

"I … it's called Obliviation, and yes, I … well, I thought I would."

"You thought?" Jack tilted his head, curiosity creasing his brow. "You mean now you're not sure?"

Ianto shook his head. He hadn't meant to say that, he knew what he should do. But now his doubts resurfaced. Jack had witnessed the birth of the last two centuries, outliving even Professor Dumbledore; he'd died again and again to save the human race, magical as well as Muggle. Ianto wasn't qualified to make the decision he was about to make, but they'd crossed so many lines tonight that Ianto wasn't sure how to backtrack. He was sure of one thing, though: Jack couldn't be Obliviated like some Muggle who'd unwittingly stumbled onto a Quidditch pitch.

Quietly, incisively, Jack's voice pierced his thoughts. "I'm not just anybody, Ianto. You know I can keep a secret. And there's got to be a way that you can use your magic when you need to, without anyone finding out. I can help you figure that out."

Maybe it was the Ouroboros Spell still echoing each other's thoughts, or maybe Jack and he had reached the same decision independently. Ianto wasn't sure anymore. But as Jack moved closer, invading the distance that Ianto had put between them, Ianto knew that he wouldn't Obliviate him. Gingerly he took Jack's offered hand, his fingers hooking lightly on the man's wide palm.

"Besides," Jack said, his familiar cheeky grin returned, "I'd hate to forget what just happened. I think we should try that again when we get back to Cardiff. Maybe in a bed. Or on Gwen's desk. Or in the Archives."

Making his voice stern helped stifle Ianto's laughter. "I don't think that behaviour would be appropriate in the Archives, sir. We wouldn't want to damage the records."

Laughing, Jack handed him his jacket, brushing off some dust that the spell had missed. "You really are a bookslug, aren't you?" He smirked at Ianto's look of mock indignation.

"I'm a Ravenclaw, and proud of it. And if you're nice I'll show you our Tower."

 _"This could work,"_ Ianto allowed himself to think for the first time. Jack, Torchwood, magic … different aspects of his life that he'd always walled off, but that might instead fit together, might support each other like the cornerpieces of a house. With Jack beside him, they started down the path to Hogwarts.

*****

"Hold up, Malfoy! We need to talk."

Draco didn't stop; on the contrary, his strides grew longer. He'd never once made things easy for Potter and he was not about to start now.

He was disgusted with himself for running away, but that was nothing to how he would feel if he stayed. He hadn't lied when he told Jack this reunion wasn't going as he'd hoped. But then Draco had abandoned his faith in the fairness of the universe the day he turned seventeen. It wasn't hard to do with Aunt Bella's maniacal cackle drowning out the sounds of his "birthday present," a blubbering Muggle he'd been given to cruciate. This, though, this was open mockery from the gods. Seeing Potter on the dance floor, looking implausibly fit and moving with a sensuality that made Draco's mouth water, this was a great sucker-punch from the gods on high.

And yes, maybe it'd been foolish to expect the same dishevelled boy he'd known. It was probably even more foolhardy to think his own nagging interest might have seen some sense over the years. But nothing had prepared him for the staggering wave of _want_ that surged through him when he looked into his nemesis' green eyes.

Of course Potter had fled, and why wouldn't he? It was only fitting that now, when Potter was intent on talking—Merlin, talking with Potter! Who had ever heard such nonsense?—that he return the favour. But as it turned out, the Man Who Lived To Annoy was proving every bit as persistent as the young Boy Nuisance. The sharp click of dress shoes on cobblestone grew nearer, Draco's head start dwindling to nothing.

"You can't just leave like that."

Draco stopped so quickly that his pursuer's next step sent him flying past. As Potter nearly tripped, Draco complimented himself; he could hardly have planned it better. "Oh, pardon me. I've been away for some time, I didn't realise that permission was now necessary to leave a pub. My deepest apologies."

"Malfoy…"

That exasperated tone always had made Malfoy want to tighten the screws. He wished he was a better man now, more mature, but the truth was that he was suddenly thirteen years old and brimming with anger he didn't understand.

"Tell me, for future reference you understand, is it your permission in particular that is required? Or will the word of any Auror suffice?"

"Merlin, Malfoy, why do you have to be this way?"

The exasperated tone was deeply rewarding. Draco was also happy to note that he still stood a few inches taller than Potter. It helped that the man slouched so. Right now his shoulders slumped like a willow tree, inspiring Draco to lift his chin to better stare down his nose.

"What way is that? I simply wish to know the details of this proscription. I should not wish to inadvertently damage my reputation."

"There's no proscription. Your reputation is safe."

There was no exasperation this time, just a lifeless voice that felt surprisingly like a death rattle in Draco's chest. He told himself it was just surprise; resignation was not something he'd ever seen in Potter.

"Then if you don't mind, I'll be on my way."

Longing for the crack of robes that should have signalled his dramatic exit, Draco stepped off the Hogsmeade street onto the well-trod path to Hogwarts. After a good few yards he let out the breath he'd been holding. No crunching footsteps were coming up from behind. Potter hadn't followed. Strange, then, this crushing sense of disappointment. _"That's what I want!"_ he admonished himself sharply.

A few steps further, and Draco veered off the wide path through a break in the birches. He wasn't up for the Slytherin common room just yet. They'd want a show—proof that Draco Malfoy, rising from the ashes of the war, had been the true phoenix of Hogwarts. They'd want to see that he was still worth following.

Potter hadn't followed.

This changed everything. Potter had always followed, _always_. His failed attempts at stealth had provided hours of entertainment to the Slytherins; his obsession with Draco had given rise to all kinds of speculation that Draco had not bothered to dissuade. It didn't hurt to have his housemates questioning his motives as much as the Gryffindor was.

He'd recognised that familiar disgust in Potter's eyes tonight, back there on the dance floor. He knew it should have bothered him. Years of slaving to become something worthy, devouring goblin treatises and Muggle economics textbooks alike, building a career on his intellect and hard work instead of his family name, these were all swept away by Potter's repulsed glance. Those flashes of green should have hit him hard as a killing curse, flames of hatred from the man who'd never see more than an enemy.

The thing about it was, though, that when these flares did hit, they soothed Draco more than his mother's best warming charms. He relished the shockwaves roiling through him, rejoiced as they crackled through his gut. Draco was fully aware of just how fucked up that was. How fucked up _he_ was. But that was a secret he'd learned to live with.

When Potter didn't follow, though … well, it felt like flying from a sunny day into a storm cloud. Compared with the memory of icy pellets stinging his face and the sudden bone-deep chill that froze his fingers to the broomstick, the chill of this Scottish night felt toasty in comparison.

Draco leaned against the trunk of an ancient oak and tried to settle his disquiet thoughts. The lake stretched before him, a pool of spilt ink reflecting a moon just days past full. Just days more and it would become a sliver, and he would be shut of this place and its memories. As the silence stretched on and the moon traced an arc across the starry sky, he could imagine that time and distance might truly work, that this ridiculous obsession might wane and he might finally get on with his life.

"Think the giant squid is still alive?"

The unexpected voice shattered his peace. Draco hated Potter's presumptuous tone that assumed he wanted company. He hated his treasonous mind even more because he did. His fingernails digging into the crusty bark, Draco channelled his bitterness into the most disdainful voice he could muster.

"I wouldn't know. Perhaps if we'd had a qualified Magical Creatures teacher we'd know more of its lifespan." _How had Potter managed to move so quietly?_ Somewhere along the way the gangly boy he'd known had grown into a sleek and stealthy creature. The universe had flown past mockery into outright cruelty. "Stalking me still, I see?"

"Damn it, Malfoy, I'm not stalking you!" The reaction was the same as ever, kindling ready to spark. But somehow Potter managed to douse the flames before they could ignite. "I just … I wanted to talk. It's been a long time, you know. The reason we hated each other doesn't even exist anymore."

 _"Your hair is reason enough,"_ Draco wanted to say as Potter carded his unruly mop. He wasn't sure why he bit back the words, whether it was indeed maturity or this nearly dizzying relief that Potter was here. Or maybe Potter's words actually made sense, reluctant as he was to admit that. Except they really didn't. "Talk? Us?"

Potter snorted, obviously thinking the idea just as absurd. "I know, it sounds crazy, doesn't it? But you … you were helping a Muggle."

"I trade Muggle securities, I work with Muggles every day. A few of them do manage to survive."

Potter had a nice laugh, Draco decided. His astonishment fled when Potter leaned a shoulder against the oak tree. Not touching him, the trunk was thankfully wide enough that there was some distance between them, but Draco still felt a proprietary annoyance.

"I just didn't expect it," Potter was saying. "You've changed."

And that rankled. "Really, I can do without you pronouncing judgment on my lifestyle. Especially when you make it a habit to date Hufflepuffs."

"I wasn't the one doing the bump and grind out there on the dance floor."

"I beg to differ. You were giving the whole school a show. Honestly, Potter, I'd never have imagined you had it in you." And wasn't _that_ a poor choice of words, for what he _had_ imagined in Potter made feverish crimson bloom across Draco's neck. He thanked the darkness for shrouding him in puritan greys.

A shuffle beside him drew his awareness, discomfort rolling off the Gryffindor like fog off the sea. Something clicked in Draco's head then, the too-quickly fading memory of how their bodies had moved together surging back as he realised that Potter had noticed him on the dance floor. Another shift, the crack of a twig underfoot as his rival prepared to bolt, the next move in this endless game of tag they played. Unless Draco could put an end to it once and for all. His voice turned sly as a bold idea muscled its way to his tongue. "Or maybe that's why you're here. Got a taste and want more?"

Potter had gone deathly quiet. It was terribly inviting, his lack of refusal. Not allowing himself to contemplate about what he was doing, Draco pivoted away from the tree, stopping directly in front of the other man. His hand snaked out, his palm crushing starched linen. The fabric shifted slightly; he felt the metal bite of a zipper, beneath that something tensed, unformed but definitely alive.

Potter was so still it seemed he'd stopped breathing.

"Is that what you want then? A quick hand job to take away the stench of Hufflepuff?" His hand burned, that fire that always blazed inside Potter threatening to burst free and engulf him. "Or do you want me down on my knees, sucking you off?"

Potter gasped. "Yes … no …"

"Make up your mind," Draco growled. He squeezed Potter's awakening cock, noticing that it had no such doubts. "The offer's not likely to be restated."

"Yes," Potter panted, like he had trouble drawing breath around the hugeness of the word, "gods, yes!"

Draco sneered as he knelt. His expression might be lost in the darkness but he felt stronger for it. A sweet, earthy fragrance rose from the crushed grass under him, grounding him, steadying his hand as he smoothly unzipped the expensive slacks. Potter was still jumpy as a Snidget, Draco could almost feel the strained hum rising off him, and it would never do to reveal that he was affected just as strongly.

Peeling his trousers back, Draco found silk boxers still protecting Potter's modesty. He was momentarily surprised. In his previous imaginings of this moment Potter was always conveniently bare underneath. Now the soft cloth begged to be touched; damp with sweat and excitement, it made this encounter more real than the tree root pockmarking his knee. He briefly considered what colour Potter would have chosen for this night. Garish red, most likely; even a Gryffindor wouldn't be so gauche as to wear gold silk boxers, surely.

But no colour could detract from the muggy heat that begged Draco to press his face against the swelling erection. To feel it go from interest to arousal, skin stretching and growing, pressing hard against the curve of his cheek, that truly would be heaven. That would undo him. And so he resisted, his breath measured as his fingers appraised Potter's length. His longest finger delicately stroked the tip, setting his mouth to watering when wetness seeped through the soft fabric.

Potter's hips pressed frantically forward, his body already begging for more friction than the smooth satin allowed. It felt heady, this power, and that as much as the hard flesh in his hand shot bolts of lightning straight into Draco's groin. This was Harry Potter, for Merlin's sake, for years his nemesis, for decades his obsession, and now the man was making little mewling noises that sounded remarkably like Millicent's cat. All for the sake of Draco's hand on his boxers.

The mewling grew more desperate, the sounds blending with Draco's own silent desire. He tugged the silk away, leaving Harry's cock bobbing like a kite on a string. Potter was longer than Draco had imagined; thicker, too. Just one more evil twist of the universe's knife. With an intentionally ungentle tug, Draco pulled Harry's cowled skin over his crown, at the same time forcing his tongue inside the bunched-up flesh. Faint flavours spread over his tastebuds as he lapped fiercely at the slit; diluted and unsatisfying, it was still enough to give him a hint of what Potter tasted. _"Afternoon rain on an ocean strand,"_ he thought, traces of salt tainting the clean water. And the smell … the smell was pure intoxication, sweat and arousal boldly assaulting Draco's nose, and an overpowering musk that in his memories he had always associated with his school years. Now he realised it came from Potter alone. His nostrils flared, inviting every pore of his body to drink in the luscious scent.

Potter was practically hyperventilating above him, his hips so taut that his chest heaved above. One might think the Boy Hero never got any; Draco realised he liked that thought more than he probably should. He took his time drawing his hand down the length of Potter's cock, feeling the hard flesh quiver like the strongest steel girders might quake in a seismic shift. His tongue laved the silky foreskin until it lay flat, only then letting Potter slide deeper into his mouth. His lips stretched; the man was definitely a mouthful, and that thought sent his free hand fumbling for his own zipper and a single indulgent squeeze. It would be far too easy to finish himself off in a few quick strokes; Potter's strangled grunts were the perfect accompaniment for a fast, dirty wank. But he would save that for later, this moment with Potter so completely at his mercy replayed time and again at Draco's leisure.

"…fuck, Draco," he heard, the indulgent vowels making his name sound rich as the most expensive cognac. And yes, that sound would definitely join his future repertoire. Those words had left Potter's tongue so many times, always spit with malice or riddled with disbelief. Never intoned with such immense gravity, with such intense amazement, and certainly never inspiring Draco to give just as much as he took. He rewarded the words by moving his mouth and fist in tandem, and Potter's erection seemed to swell more with each pulling stroke.

Keeping up an ever-intensifying pace on Potter's cock, Draco's free hand snaked up the inside of his thigh, relishing how the muscles there strained with gorgeous tension. After ten years the man still had the body of an athlete; strength thrummed under just the thinnest layer of skin. Pity, thought Draco, that he'd not have the chance to explore how Potter could really move. Those restrained thrusts against the heel of Draco's hand hinted at the kind of control that Draco had always loved pushing to the limit.

He tested that semblance of control now by palming the sac hanging between Potter's legs. Like grape clusters it dropped, so plump and juicy that Draco wished for another mouth just so he could feel the delectable flesh heavy on his tongue. With a deep groan of appreciation, Potter's fingers grappled for purchase across Draco's scalp. An admonishing hum and sharp squeeze reminded the Gryffindor who was in charge. There was a whimper of response, a strangled little sound of surrender that floated out onto the lake and was lost … but not before it detoured straight into Draco's cock.

Draco was sure he was harder than he'd ever been. No surprise, really. He'd imagined this moment hundreds of times … no, make that thousands of times, if he counted those years in school, shackled by hormones and ignorance of the intersection between rivalry and want, between loathing and lust. If he counted the stream of wiry, dark-haired men whose thick accents softened when they reached this point, when they started murmuring the same nonsensical sounds that Potter made now, when he could almost believe emerald-green eyes might be staring down at him.

Draco looked up, almost shocked to see it really was Potter staring down. Even in the colourless night there could be no mistaking the dark, dishevelled hair falling over his shoulders, the eyes wide with wonder, the mouth hanging open like an unstoppered bottle whose contents have already spilt out. Potter's cock slipped another fraction further inside Draco's mouth, with each slide the tip nudging the back of his throat with a combination of awkwardness and insistence that was so very typical of the man. Merlin but his throat was going to hurt tomorrow, and Draco welcomed every single rasp. The ultimate notch on his bedpost, the physical proof that the great Harry Potter had unravelled, just for him.

With so much delicious cock inside his mouth, with his nose buried in the mess of dark pubes, Draco's hand found his own neglected erection; the touch, the immense relief of it, nearly undid him. If Harry's strangled howls weren't enough to bring him off, his hand wet with saliva and Potter's own fluids would surely make quick work of it. He fought against it, though, forcing his attention to the sharp root digging into his knees, desperate to stretch this out, to make time his ally in convincing his mind that the unbelievable was indeed true.

He sent his other hand exploring further between Potter's legs, a curious finger squeezing its way up the crevice to his hidden well. Just teasing the velvety skin around the rim curled his toes, sent a shiver swirling through him. _Fuck._ Potter's hole was so tiny, so tight … Draco gripped his fist tighter, imagined he was forcing himself inside, feeling the muscles first resist, waves of sensation rippling all around him, Potter's body fighting to take more of him, deeper and deeper...

Then Potter, the real Potter, dragged Draco from his imagination and into this real world where even pebbled knees and the painful fist in his hair couldn't distract him from the wonder of a tight hole swallowing his digits. Where even watery eyes and a throat stretched with each deep thrust couldn't stop the ecstatic shiver that grew, up his thighs, into his belly, his shoulders, all connected to a single nerve ending clutched in his slick palm, building irreversibly, despite his best efforts to slow it and make it last. Draco pumped his fingers into Potter's arse, hard and too dry but Potter's writhing and wanton groans insisted he wanted it like that. Maybe he needed an ache to remember tomorrow; maybe he needed a notched bedpost too, and that thought made Draco push even deeper.

His knuckles buried, his fingertips stroking the hard gland inside, Draco felt the weight on his tongue somehow swell even more. Potter was trying to say something, probably muttering a warning too late, but Draco had already recognised the telltale signs, had already attuned his entire body to Potter's. The splash of silky come landed on his tongue, the perfect sharp bitter sweetness soaking his taste buds, the perfect complement to this heady smell and the bite of nails in his scalp and Potter's helpless, happy keen. It sent Draco spiralling over the edge, that swirling sensation lifting him higher, holding him there as the world spun without him, as his own riotous orgasm poured itself over his hand and onto the waiting ground.

Potter himself was splayed there an instant later, his knees proving useless. He sprawled, back against the tree trunk, legs wide and bare, looking so thoroughly debauched with lips glistening that Draco wanted … _"No,"_ he reminded himself, _"a kiss is for a lover. This is …"_ This was Potter, and he was both less and more at the same time.

He was also reaching out an uncoordinated hand, tugging Draco towards him, and he scowled when he saw that Draco had brought himself off. "I wanted to do that," he grumbled. The retort that the Chosen One didn't always get what he wanted evaporated when Potter's tongue darted out, swiping through the seed pooled in Draco's palm. Draco's heart pounded so hard he suspected it might burst free of his chest. All his nerves were now centred in his hand, under Potter's thorough tongue. Studiously he cleaned each digit with lingering licks and deliberate, slow sucks designed to make Draco regret taking matters into his own hand.

Just as Draco was finding it impossible to breathe, Potter stopped. He looked up with what might have been a bashful look, surprising after what he had just done. Merlin, what perversity and innocence Potter was revealing tonight, and what Draco wouldn't give to explore this more …

He shook his head hard as he stood awkwardly. Casting scourgify cleaned the dirt and flecks of sticky come from his trousers; it also gave him the chance to regain his composure. He spared a glance down at Potter, the thought of offering a cleaning spell flickering briefly through his mind, but the man hadn't yet moved a muscle.

"Going to sit there all night, Potter?"

"I was thinking about it." Making no move to dress again he bent his knee, concealing his resting cock in the shadows. Draco wondered why that should have made him even more aware of it than before. "Not really in the mood to go back to the party now, you know."

Draco's back stiffened at the implied insult. "No, of course not," he snarled. Obviously Potter would not wish to return to his friends. The Chosen One would never admit to what they'd just done. Not that Draco wanted to boast of it, but his reasons were different. He would distil this experience alone, extract its essence in its most concentrated form, undiluted by his housemates' inquiries. His need for privacy wasn't motivated by the shame that Potter no doubt felt.

"You don't have to leave right away, do you, Draco?"

Draco turned back to face the source of that earnest question, confusion sharpening his voice. "You want me to stay?" Potter's nodding grin threatened to disarm him—a terribly dangerous step, Draco realised. Turning his back for good was the only sure way to protect himself. That step seemed too far, though, and his curiosity was too strong. "Why? You want to be friends now? Because of what just happened?"

"Actually, I was kind of hoping for that before. Now…" He looked up at Draco with a smile that could have powered cities. "Now I think I might like to be more than that."

 _More._ More of those incredible moans, of that delicious cock. More time to explore the mysteries of that body, to see what he could make it do. Yes, yes, Draco definitely wanted more; he was already salivating at the wanking material a single night with Potter could provide. But then he remembered where they were.

"What are you suggesting, Potter? That I ditch my friends so we can fuck in Gryffindor Tower? I'm not terribly fond of red and gold, you know."

"No, and I'm not ready to be tied up in the Slytherin dungeon." Potter stood up, doing up his trousers as he stepped towards Draco. "Not yet, anyway," he added, and his voice was so coy that Draco would have sworn he was blushing.

 _"Yet."_ Draco's brain seemed stuck on that word, playing it over again and again, until he was taken by surprise when fingers brushed down his arm. He couldn't think of any other reason he let their fingers lace together so easily.

"I was thinking we might go out, you and me," Potter was saying, "if you were staying in London for a bit. Or maybe I could come to Canada, I've got holidays coming up…"

And he hardly heard anything more, because that something in his head was starting to click again. Something that he knew would be crazy and dangerous and exciting, if he'd only just let it. And then Potter wasn't saying anything more, because Draco was kissing him and thinking that he just might be ready for it.

*****

"Wake up, Potter. We need to talk."

Lazy eyes cracked open, blurry from crumbles of sleep still clinging to his lashes, slowly focusing on the Draco-sized hollow indenting the pillow beside him. He knew if he touched the other side of the bed he'd find the sheets cold. Of all the many things he'd ever found impossible about his lover, rising early on Sunday mornings topped the list.

"Hmmm … what time is it?"

"It's nearly noon. Time to shift your lazy arse."

Harry cast a quick Tempus Charm. "Such a bloody liar." Hoping to coax his lover back, Harry stretched his arms over his head. The morning sun streamed in, bouncing off his flexed muscles in what he hoped was an appealing way, one that promised all sorts of enticements if Draco would postpone the day for just a little longer.

From the corner of his eye he saw Draco take note. Instead of returning to bed, however, Draco stubbornly tightened the sash on his emerald dressing gown.

"Fine, if you must quibble, it's just gone ten. But you need to be awake for this." Papers rustled, demanding and slightly violent. "Potter, are you paying any attention at all?"

Harry chuckled. These days, Draco only resorted to his surname when reminded of their school days. That meant he must have found yesterday's owl post. Harry had left the creamy parchment envelope on Draco's antique Chippendale desk in their study. On it were both of their names, written in old-fashioned calligraphy:

  
_Mr Draco Malfoy and Mr Harry Potter, 42 Croom's Hill, Greenwich, London_   


"I already know what it is. Neville got his at the office yesterday." Harry opened his eyes for real this time and, sure enough, saw the invitation flapping in Draco's hand. "So are you ready to brave my House en masse?"

"I'll have you know that despite lowering my standards to live with one of you lot, I have absolutely no intention of spending a weekend in that lion's den. Really, Potter, how can you stand it? Centuries of sweaty Gryffindors have been marinating in there."

"I thought you liked when I sweat."

Harry reached under the sheet, quite obviously, to cup his morning erection. He noted with satisfaction that it derailed Draco's rant, if only for a moment.

"You manage to distract me from the odour," snapped Draco after a second had passed. "Besides, your grooming habits have improved considerably since I took you on as a special project. But that's neither here nor there. The question is where we shall stay. The dungeons are out, of course—Myrddin only knows what entrapments have been set against invading Gryffindors—and I'm not eager to discover the myriad forms of blight that no doubt flourish in the guest rooms at the Three Broomsticks."

"There's always the Shrieking Shack," suggested Harry helpfully.

Draco's glare chilled the room. "I shan't mind us sleeping apart after all, apparently."

"But Draco," Harry said, adopting a whining edge that he knew his lover wouldn't tolerate, "how will I sleep if you're not hogging all the covers?"

Instead of the expected retort, Draco stared out over the back garden. His features were always fine, but at times like this they looked brittle as bone china, with sharp lines creasing his forehead like the fractures in an antique teacup. The invitation, still in his hand, crumpled against the window frame. Harry's heart squeezed a little at the sight.

"Draco, it'll be all right."

In the instant it took Draco to plaster on a smile, the infamous Malfoy barricade had already reappeared.

"Of course it will. You being the romantic one, I'd naturally assumed that you'd mind us sleeping apart for the first time in– what must it be, eight years now? I see I was wrong."

Smiling a gentle truce, Harry reached out his hand. Almost reluctantly Draco took it, allowing himself to be pulled to the bed but still sitting a fair distance away. His skittish lover was like a wild bird, Harry sometimes thought, and now he forced his thumb to move in slow circles over Draco's knuckles so as not to startle him. His voice, however, was light.

"Eight years. Has it really been that long?"

"Since I opened our Mayfair office, yes." His gaze struggled between suspicion and reproach. "Why? Does it seem longer to you?"

Harry shook his head. "I was just thinking this reunion is a little like our ten-year anniversary."

"I suppose one might think that, yes. If one were given to that kind of sentimentality."

Ten years. Long enough to know that the more precise Draco's words, the more he was dying to say. It was always the first fissure in his lover's façade, one that Harry alone recognised.

"And I didn't really think Hogwarts would be appropriate for the way I might want to celebrate." Harry's hand slid up to Draco's wrist, his middle finger stretching to encircle it while his thumb pressed the pulse point. He might have imagined the next heartbeat was stronger; Draco's cool tone certainly didn't betray him.

"It seems you've thought this through."

"I have indeed. In fact, I've done more than think. I've made reservations at the Spiderwort Spa in Inverness. They're on the Floo Network so we can get to Hogwarts without any trouble."

"The Spiderwort Spa…"

"And I booked extra days on both sides so you can get treatments before and recuperate after. Penelope's already cleared your calendar."

Draco was rarely speechless and almost never surprised. Harry took advantage of the momentary imbalance to tug him over, and his lover tumbled willingly. His long leg draped over Harry's, separated only by a thin sheet, and a smile crept over his face despite the still-stunned look in his eyes.

"You arranged all this without telling me?"

Harry kissed him lightly. "If I told you it would have ruined the surprise."

"I take it back, Harry. You would be perfectly safe in Slytherin."

"Hey, now. I could always cancel the reserve–"

Smiling lips captured his, the words lapped from his mouth by Draco's clever tongue. Harry yielded willingly; it was a dirty trick that Draco employed whenever he might lose an advantage, but Harry could never resist the man's kisses. The merest touch of those warm lips melted his backbone, the thorough exploration of Draco's tongue along the ridge of his teeth turned his insides to jelly. _"Lips perfect for kissing,"_ Harry thought dreamily as their tongues tangled together, and remembered his surprise when Draco confessed that he rarely kissed. Years ago now, but still those few men who'd touched Draco's lips were hated with a passion Harry usually reserved for aubergines and Dark Lords. He'd spent the ten years since exorcising their ghosts, revelling in what a quick study Malfoy's mouth turned out to be.

"Another ten years," Draco purred as if reading Harry's thoughts. Sometimes Harry was sure he could. His mouth roamed down Harry's throat and then back up the curve of his neck, all lush kisses and clever tongue until Harry was ready to babble helplessly for Draco to fuck him. Soon Draco was laving the ridge of Harry's ear, knowing well the effect that had on him.

 

And then he ruined it all by whispering, "Do you think Ianto Jones will bring his American friend this time?"

Harry tensed, his mind rushing to straight to _"damn you, Draco."_ Of course he knew what had happened that night at Hogsmeade, had thought it quite funny, actually. But that was in the past, or at least he'd believed it was. He fought to control his voice, trying hard to make the words less accusatory, less resentful. "Why, do you want him to?"

"And you say _I'm_ the jealous one."

Draco laughed, a warm puff of air across Harry's ear that tickled, although Harry's mind insisted it was simply bristling at Draco's flippant tone. "You hexed Ginny over a new year's kiss."

"That wasn't a kiss, that was a porn movie in the offing. Woman can't hold her drink. But you've got no worries over the Muggle. He's not the one I live with, is he?" The way Draco was nibbling on the skin behind Harry's ear was thoroughly distracting; Harry thought he should answer the question but his lover didn't wait for him. "He's not the one who books us for a spa break—where they'd better have the best privacy spells money can buy, for what I'm imagining doing to you." His lips still teasing Harry's ear, he tugged Harry's hand down between his legs, pressing their fingers together on Draco's hardened flesh. "He's not the one who can still do this to me, every single time."

Ten years Harry had been with this man, ten years in which obsession had transformed into something solid and real, as beautiful as it was terrifying. Over those ten years he'd gotten to know this body as well as his own, yet every time he touched his lover, Harry felt the same surge of lust that he had on that first summer night, when Draco gave life to his oldest fantasy.

Harry turned his head, capturing Draco's mouth in another kiss without ever releasing his grip between Draco's legs. "I want to fuck you," he murmured into those warm lips, deepening their kiss as the body in his arms shuddered. His other hand slipped inside the silken dressing gown, peeled it away; his palm skimmed along skin nearly as soft and twice as interesting. "Need to be inside you." He kissed the words across Draco's jaw, pressed them down his throat, seared them into the smattering of pale hairs on his chest.

"Yes," hissed Draco, again and again until the sibilance mimicked serpent-speech. Like the creature he coiled himself gracefully, curving his back as his legs lifted. With his knees folded to his chest, Draco presented himself to his lover, vulnerable and with not a hint of shame. He reached for Harry with complete trust even as his hips rolled higher, offering the most irresistible seduction.

Reverently, Harry's hands wandered over this prize. _"Mine,"_ he thought possessively as his hands worshipped Draco's body, tracing the ridge of his spine and the muscles of his thighs. With wonder he brushed his fingers across the golden hair that dusted his legs and thickened into darker, damp curls. Full of awe, he cradled Draco's pale buttocks in his palms, gently splitting the halves like segments of an orange to make room for Harry's tongue press inside, to invade, to ravish.

Indulging wholly in this intoxicating flesh, in this intimate act that was his alone, Harry only noticed Draco's moans after they'd reached an almost desperate pitch. He glanced up to see Draco's erection bobbing helplessly, Draco's pained snarl in the background. "Fuck me, Harry, or I swear I'll…" The threat was never finished; Draco's voice faded when Harry's crown pressed against his sensitive rim, and by the time he'd breached the ring of relaxed muscle it had transmuted into a breathless groan of pleasure.

Entering Draco was like coming home to the most decadent brothel imaginable. His body was at once familiar and so powerfully arousing, his magic meshing and mingling with Harry's own. Harry slid inside in one slick push, holding his breath until he was buried to the hilt, waiting as Draco's channel stretched and squeezed around him, warring ripples intent on both expelling and embracing him. Even before this pulsing rhythm stilled, strong legs knotted around Harry's back, dragging him even deeper. "Harder," Draco demanded, growling again "harder" despite his unhooked ankles fluttering like wild swans around Harry's ears. Harry captured the flying limbs and shifted them to his shoulders, shins fast in his grip as he stared down with devotion at Draco. His lover's hand swept lightning-quick along his length, pumping himself with such ferocity that Harry redoubled his efforts.

The signs of Draco's imminent climax mounted, clues couched in his guttural not-words and the force of his hips braced against Harry's thrusts. His face flushed violently red, his eyelashes fluttering flecks of silver against his scarlet cheeks. The picture of angelic debauchery, his rococo flush enough to send Harry spiralling into ecstasy had he not fought to forestall it. He watched for that last telltale evidence: the short gasp that left those kissable lips forming a perfect 'O', the sliver of his quick pink tongue quivering to stillness. With that, Harry's hips swung back, withdrawing until only his crown was still tucked inside Draco's opening, and then thrust forward harder than before. Amidst the exquisitely long glide of re-entry he felt Draco's hard shudder, inside as well as out, the vicious rattle strangling Harry's cock with the power of thousands of tiny nooses. Each throb pulled him deeper into Draco, wound their magical energies tighter together until their bodies fused, inseparable and perfect.

When Harry climaxed, just a second later, he could have sworn that it was his seed that lay glistening on Draco's sternum.

More kisses followed, and more touches, slow, sated ones content to while away the morning. Harry tucked his shoulders under Draco's arm and settled his cheek comfortably into the crook of his neck. Here his vision was filtered through fine silver hair, the air he breathed scented with his lover's sandalwood shampoo.

"I need to thank him," Draco finally said, and Harry didn't have to ask who he was talking about. "He made me think of how it'd be if you'd slipped away again."

Harry wanted to protest that that couldn't have happened, but he knew too well it could. With all the possibilities and all the choices in the world, sometimes he thought it was a miracle they'd found each other. "Then I hope he'll come to the reunion. I want to thank him too," Harry said, sleepily tangling his legs around his lover's.

And this time, he would definitely ask Draco for a dance.

*****

Myfanwy's squawk echoed through the Hub's main tower, calling Jack from his monitor. It was a welcome distraction from the chore of staff performance reviews. He'd fully supported rebuilding Torchwood London, there was certainly enough alien activity to warrant it, but he'd never expected the reformed bureaucracy to demand quite so much paperwork. As he was almost sideswiped by a wayward wing, he wondered if they wanted a review of the pterodactyl too. _"Enthusiastic if rather indiscriminate in defence of Torchwood … could display more consideration for teammates …"_

A flurry of grey caught his eye, feathered wings more appropriate for this time if not this place. _"How did a hawk get inside the Hub?"_ Jack suspected its visit would be short-lived in any case. Myfanwy was closing in fast on the invader-cum-dinner, indignant screeches pouring from her ancient beak. But with only seconds from those tooth-filled jaws, the hawk pulled itself back so suddenly that it seemed to freeze in the air, rising just enough that its hunter slid past with inches to spare. It was a manoeuvre worthy of the best flying ace in the fiercest dogfight, and while Myfanwy wailed in frustration, Jack applauded the escape.

On hearing the noise, the now-circling hawk—no, it was an owl, Jack realised—flew the short distance to him. Myfanwy swung past languidly, her threat revived with the breeze off her membraned wings.

"Hello," said Jack, trying to remember what Ianto had said about owls in his world. He was pretty sure that protecting them from prehistoric reptiles was Rule No. 1.

The owl ruffled its feathers in reply. Balancing on one foot on an extruding pipe, it lifted its other to Jack. He hastily retrieved the envelope tied to its talons, smirking at the address in old-fashioned calligraphy:

  
_Mr Ianto Jones, Torchwood Hub, Cardiff_   


"They couldn't just use Royal Mail?" he muttered. The owl chirped its disapproval. "No, we wouldn't want you out of a job. Or ending up as a between-meals snack. Hang on." Jack crossed to a nearby wall panel (one of several that Ianto had installed after yet another near-fatal emergency blocked them from the Hub's primary controls) and keyed in an unscheduled feeding for the pterodactyl. As soon as Myfanwy dove towards her trough, he nodded to the owl. "You've got a good ten minutes before she's done. Think you can find your own way out?" Jack would have felt foolish, chatting with a bird like this, had not the owl winked conspiratorially before taking to the air.

Jack went in the other direction, down the steps and into the bowels of the Hub, Ianto's letter still in his hand. He knew where he'd find the man, where he himself would have been if he hadn't buried himself in paperwork. Past the Archives, down concrete corridors damp and tinged too brightly green for anything natural this far below ground, to the part of the Hub where no one ever ventured. Save Ianto. He did know more about this place than anyone and proved it when he shared his most secret hiding place with Jack.

Today being Sunday, with the rest of the team resting, Ianto had no need for hiding. The door to "the Tub" was wide open, freeing the rich harmonies of the National Chorus—Ianto loved relaxing to their recordings—to waft down the hall. Jack stepped into the room, inhaling deep the humid air warmed by the hot spring Ianto had discovered. Or that he claimed to have discovered; Jack knew Taff's Well never reached temperatures like this, never invited you to soak in its bone-melting heat until all your cares melted away. And since that day, nearly five years ago now, that Ianto brought Jack to his family's waterfall home at Pistyll Rhaeadr, Jack had suspected that his lover could make water do things that Jack couldn't even imagine. If Ianto had used it magic create this oasis in the midst of steel and concrete, then who could blame him?

Ianto was adrift in that oasis now, tiny ripples of water lapping around his chin, his eyes closed. Jack wondered how long he'd been here. A good while, by the looks of things; his hair was nearly dry, but pushed awkwardly back, unstyled and haggardly endearing. And his skin, Jack knew, would be unblemished. Anyone else would have emerged like a withered prune, but Ianto never did. "Half Selkie," he'd jokingly explained, but Jack wondered if there wasn't some truth to it.

He slipped his shoes off, then undressed, before turning down the music a notch. Ianto opened his eyes then, and smiled lazily as Jack slipped into the water and settled on the submerged ledge on the other side of the pool.

"I thought you were working."

"I was until your post arrived. Special delivery."

Ianto eyebrow rose, which sent a fat droplet of sweat trickling down his cheek to disappear into the pool. "On Sunday?"

"Apparently owls aren't unionised."

Jack watched gears grind behind Ianto's frown, and then saw a grin erupt. His lover's face grew larger, his smile spreading as he floated closer. "I think I know what it's about."

He didn't explain, though, just straddled Jack's knees, hooking a leg on either side. It was an odd weight, buoyant and lighter than he'd expected but so very solid, graphite mistaken for steel.

"So were you planning to share?"

Ianto's eyes sparkled the brightest blue, the same glittering hues that glinted off the sea at New Quay on those remarkably sunny days. "Do you remember my class reunion?"

The smile bloomed over Jack's face. Of course he remembered it, the day he'd learned the secret of Ianto Jones. Their relationship had taken form that day, both falling into something deeper than they had expected and more challenging than they'd ever dreamed. Through the years they'd continued shaping this rare union, combining their different ways into something that was unique, something that worked for a Welsh wizard and a time traveller from Boeshane. Ten years it must have been, ten years … "Your reunion," Jack said, catching on at last. "So the letter, that means it must be time for another one."

In lieu of an answer Ianto lifted a hand to Jack's face. Clear water flowed like a beaded curtain down his arm, streams splashing loudly back into the pool. Sure enough, his skin was unwrinkled; plump, rosy flesh stroked his cheek, unbelievably warm. Beneath the water Ianto's other hand moved, a simple paddling motions, save for the currents that caressed Jack's bare skin. The ripples swirled like wet tongues, like waving flags, creating all kinds of interesting sensations that seemed to centre between Jack's legs.

Jack shifted forward on the ledge, sliding Ianto closer. With both hands he reached up, cradling Ianto's face and dragging him forward. Their lips joined, tongues sliding together, wiping all the questions from Jack's mind. And wasn't that always the way. Jack had never asked for fidelity and never promised it; Ianto had adopted 51st century ways eagerly and they'd both had satisfying relationships outside Torchwood. But this, this was always what Jack came home to. When his mind was functioning he thanked his lucky stars that wizards led long lives.

At moments like this, when it wasn't, he simply thanked his lucky stars for the amazing things that Ianto's submerged hands were doing. The tiny ripples breaking the surface only hinted at the force of what was happening below. Ianto's touch sluiced circles across Jack's chest, forming tiny wakes that tickled like phantom fingers. The sensations intensified as they moved lower, the pressure of solid flesh not even necessary to swell Jack to full hardness, not when his erection was the epicentre of this whirlpool. Magic, it must be; nothing else could feel like this.

Jack slipped his hands down Ianto's shoulders, down his arms, his chest, tracing broad muscles hewn in over a decade's service to Torchwood. Under the water his fingers curled loosely around Ianto's girth, his lover's flesh sliding in his palm smooth and hard as river stones. Jack gazed down at the refracted images of their hands, blurry and pale like silverfish, like the world's tiniest beluga whales. Jack couldn't hope to imitate Ianto's magic, but the choked hitch in his lover's breath confirmed he didn't need to. As Jack's strokes grew faster, strong enough to churn the surface of the bath, Ianto's head fell back helplessly. Exquisite sounds of pleasure babbled from his lips, urging Jack on.

Their climaxes were pulled forward with the force of the strongest ocean currents. Jack's started with a sucking feeling down in his toes but spread through him like a flash flood. Too powerful to resist, it swept him along as if he was a mere fragment of driftwood buffeted on the waves, sensation washing over him faster and faster until at last he came with a bellowing cry. Ianto followed, falling forward onto Jack's chest with the usual bonelessness that trailed his orgasms, entangling Jack's mouth in another long kiss.

They held each other until their hearts had stopped racing, then a little longer. Finally Ianto shifted to the side, settling next to Jack on the submerged ledge, their legs extended into the pool. Their feet collided together in the warm water and Jack wondered how long it would be before his skin curdled. Not that it mattered; he felt so listless he couldn't have moved if he tried.

"So this reunion," he finally said, "do you think your attractive blond friend will be there?"

Ianto rolled his eyes. "Probably. But don't get your hopes up. From what I hear, he and Harry are inseparable."

As if astonished by that thought, Ianto shook his head, but Jack just smiled. Over the years he'd heard of the rocky history between Malfoy and Potter, and Ianto had always expressed surprise that they had ended up together, but Jack had never doubted it. He'd seen those looks that passed between them, and he'd known what they really meant. "Who, me? You know I'd never dream of disrupting a happy home."

A sideways glance from Ianto reminded Jack of what else he'd said. "So does that mean you're bringing me as your date?"

"I might," Ianto admitted with a cryptic smile. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, making the pool's concrete rim look surprisingly comfortable. "I suppose I'll need to consider my options."

Jack leaned back too, mirroring Ianto's restful pose but adding a smug smile that was all his own. Ianto would invite him to the reunion, he was sure of it. And if he didn't? Then Jack knew exactly where he could find him.

~~~ The End ~~~


End file.
